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"DU PRBTRB, DE LA FEMME. DE LA FAMILLE." 



SPIEITUAL DIRECTION, 



AURICULAR CONFESSION; 



j^istorg, STljeovM anir (Honsfquencea. 



BEING A TRANSLATION OP 



'DU PRETRE, DE LA FEMME, DE LA FAMILLE." 



M. MICHELET, 



ASSISTANT PROFESSOR IN THE FACULTY OF LETTfcRS ; PROFESSOR IN THE NORMAL SCHOOL; 
CHIEF OF THE HISTORICAL SECTION OF ARCHIVES OF FRA^CE, ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
JAMES M. CAMPBELL, 98 CHESTNUT STREET. 

NEW YOIIK :— SAXTON & MILES, 205 lUlOADWAY. 

1845. 



'^^' 



m 



,^^' 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by 

JAMES M. CAMPBELL, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



stereotyped by L. Jolinson, & Co., rhiladelpliia. 



TMNSLATOE'S PREFACE. 



The author of this book distinctly claims, in almost so many 
words, that France is the world. He says that it is the centre 
of Europe,— that all other nations are eccentric. This is a 
Frenchman's pardonable vanity; and we are not so anxious to 
deny the influence of France upon all Europe as a jealous 
Briton might be. While England and France debate that ques- 
tion, let us make an application, to our present purpose, of the 
fact that Michelet holds such an opinion. 

When a man writes in such a spirit, if he speaks of the world, 
it is the French world. If he is talking of priests, they are 
French priests ; by Woman, he means French women ; and by the 
family, we are to understand the social relations of La Belle 
France. If we admit Michelet as a witness, the man and wife 
are oftener two, where they should be one, in that country than 
in any other. Nor does this differ with the received opinion. 
There have been causes enough to produce such an evil; causes 
which will be apparent to the reader as he proceeds, but which 
we could not here introduce, without, to borrow our author's 
expression, putting a large book into a small preface. 

The work is, moreover, eminently intended for his countrymen, 
although its truths, of general application, are important in all 
countries, and in none are more interesting and vital than in 
this, where, it would seem, the old polemics are to be waged 
over again. The gibbering Gothic ghosts of the papal regime 
are gliding about in full day in our streets, as well as in those 
of Paris. They are cunningly dressed and disguised, made some- 
times to look lovely, always to look meek. They challenge our 

3 



4 translator's preface. 

sympathy, and enlist our compassion. They betray our humanity 
into the giving them a refuge — too often in our hearts. Alas ! 
poor ghosts ! But the veil must be lifted from them. Their 
hideousness must be exposed, and this Michelet has done most 
thoroughly. 

Practice is founded on precedents. Those precedents in their 
origin came from theory. Our author has gone, with strong 
nerves, and a most valorous stomach, into the nauseating litera- 
ture, instructions, and theory of the Quieiists and Mystics^ whose 
theory, that perfection implies nothingness, required that a direc' 
tor should take charge of the hody^ while the soul floated above 
it, unconcerned by its acts, in the indefinite clouds of the mysti- 
cal all. He has shown what were the early practical results of 
this, and how its shameful consequences compelled the theory 
to be shelved, and the propound ers and preachers of it to be 
silenced. He shows also that it was not the obscure and for- 
gotten alone who held to these vagaries, but he identifies with 
that party Fenelon, and others, whose names all the world 
honours. 

Some of the quotations from the Quietists are of a character to 
make the reader shrink. Some of the examples cited of the 
consequences of their teachings m^ake the heart sick. But a 
deep-rooted disease requires stringent remedies, and if the wound 
is probed deeply, it is because there is all necessity for it. 

We have said that the theory was shelved. Why then, you 
are ready to ask, attack it now 1 Because, as we have remarked, 
theory originated precedents, precedents have established practice, 
and we have, in our day, the latter in its full life and vigour. 
The Upas still stands. Michelet has demonstrated in what 
filthiness and moral pollution such a tree took root; and he has 
shown, moreover, that in France, especially, the fruit is of a 
character fully establishing the origin of the tree. 

Nor does the chain of his argument lack a single link. By 
incontrovertible quotations he has demonstrated that the Anti- 
Quietists, including their great champion Bossuet, were Quietists 
in practice. He has done more than this. He has shown by 
quotations from Bossuet's works and letters that he wrote Quietism 
as well as acted it ; and these quotations are among the most 



startling — nay, hideous, in the book! This, too, from Bossuet, 
whose eminent fame and excellent character gave him a posi- 
tion which cannot be moved in the Roman Church. 

Nor does the argument stop here even. The author shows 
that it is no more necessary for a modern Romish priest to un- 
derstand the subtleties in which his trade has its o*rigin, than it 
is for a boy to kriow how gunpowder is manufactured to be able 
to put his own eyes out with it. He shows that the ignorant 
priests of our day, instead of doing less mischief with the im- 
pleaients furnished by the wise of old, than the wise themselves 
did, must, in the very nature of things, do more. 

Such is the thread of the argument. We are constrained to 
pass over many things which might be said, and occupy our 
remaining space with still another important characteristic. 
This book, written by a Frenchman, for Frenchmen, in language 
and thought is most thoroughly and remarkably French, The 
reader may be startled at the freedom with which the author 
approaches subjects and themes which we are accustomed to 
speak of only with the deepest reverence. We do not doubt 
his reverence ; but the strange forms of expression which he 
uses to express equally strange turns of Hhought, sometimes 
grate more than a little harshly on our ears. The reader is to 
bear the history of the book in mind at all times, and nearly 
upon every page. 

The work is a part of a controversy in which Michelet has 
been for several years engaged with the Jesuits. It was provoked 
by certain remarks which he made in his course of Historical 
Lectures, in the College of France. The Jesuits wrote and 
declaimed against him. They slandered him in private, and 
abused him in public. They preached against him in their pul- 
pits, and even sent their pupils to disturb audience and lecturer, 
while matter disagreeable to them, as truth always must be to 
falsehood, was in course of delivery. Well has he retaliated 
upon them in this volume ! 

The Roman Church has much to answer for. Numbering 
among its clergy thousands of practical but secret infidels, the 
wtrst terrible scoffers against Christianity have come from among 
the pupils of Jesuit colleges. Voltaire was one. Other infidels 

1 



received their early education at the hands of ghostly teachers. 
Their minds revolted at the character of priestly traditions, tho 
empty quibbles with which priests smothered the truth — the so- 
phistry with which they belied it, and the carnal affections 
which led to their materialism. In a word, the brilliant French 
infidels could not be idolaters. In discarding what was manifestly 
monstrous, they threw away all ; and even this was not done 
entirely of their own impulse. They retreated but a little way 
at first — they were driven to extremes by anathemas. 

Like causes produce very nearly like effects on all minds, 
differing in extent, according to the capacity of the mind acted 
on, or its greater or less interest in the subject. The Romish 
Church, as has long been known, has unchristianized the men 
of France, making them, if not declared infidels, practically 
indifferent, which, in this case, is only a quiescent state of the 
same habit of mind ; ready to blaze again into the fearful atro- 
cities of profanity which marked the French Revolution — a 
revolution which was quite as much due to priestly as to regal 
tyranny. The latter weighs down on man's outward weal — the 
former poisons the springs of his heart. 

If we see then an occasional shade of indifference to Chris- 
tianity in Michelet, we know to what to impute it. But we see 
also, in his love for his mother, in his genuine philanthropy, in 
his high aspirations after him who, we fear, is in modern France 
The Unknown God, all the elements of a firm religious faith. 
He respects and loves true Christianity, if only because he knows 
it must be the opposite of Jesuitical teachings and practice. 

^^ Can these dry bones Hve?^^ Yes, and, in God's own time, 
they will. Superstition and sophistry will give way before the 
light of Christian truth. The blow is aimed at the root of the 
Romish Upas — the celibacy of the priesthood ; — and France shall 
yet, with all the world, see and know the Great High Priest, 
whom the fond inventions of men, and their vain and wicked tra- 
ditions, have concealed frOm many a generation of unsatisfied 
and thirsting hearts. 

Philadelphia, Jbne, 1845. # 



CONTENTS. 



PART FIRST. 

SPIRITUAL DIRECTION IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 

CHAPTER I. 

Devout Reaction of 1600. — Influence of the Jesuits over Women and 
Children. — The Savoyards. — The Vaudois. — Violence and Gentle- 
ness. — St. Francis of Sales. 15 

CHAPTER 11. 
St. Francis of Sales and Madame de Chantal. — The Order of the 
Visitation. — Quietism. — Results of Religious Direction. - - 24 

CHAPTER HI. 
Isolation of Women. — "Devotion Aisee." — -Worldly Theology of 
the Jesuitsand of Rome. — " Management" of Women and Child- 
ren.— -Thirty- Years War. — Gallant Devotion. — 'Devout Romances. 
— Casuists. 36 

CHAPTER IV. 

Convents. — Quarter of the Convents. — Convents of the Seventeenth 
Century. — Contrast of the Middle Ages. — The Director. — Disputes 
to obtain the Direction of Religious Orders. — The Jesuits conquer 
by Calumny. - . . „ 50 

CHAPTER V. 
Reaction of Morals. — Arnaud, 16.43. — Pascal, 1657. — Disgrace of the 
Order of the Jesuits. — How they re-established themselves with the 
King and the Pope, and put their Enemies to Silence. Discou- 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 

ragement of the Jesuits. — Their Corruption. — They protect the first 
Quietists. — Immorality of Quietism.— Desmarets of St. Sorlin. — 
Morin burned, 1663. - - - 58 



CHAPTER VI. 

Continuation of moral Reaction.— Tartuffe, 1664-1669.— Of real Hy- 
pocrites. — Why Tartuffe is not yet a Quietist. - - - - 68 

CHAPTER VII. 
Appearance of Molinos, 1675. — His Success at Rome. — French 
Quietists. — Madame Guyon. — Her Director. — The Torrents. — 
The Mystical Death.— What Next ? 75 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Fenelon as Director.— His Quietism. — Maxims of the Saints, 1697. — 
Fenelon and Madame de Maisonfort. ------ 83 

CHAPTER IX. 

Bossuet as Director. — Bossuet and Sister Cornuau. — His Sincerity 
and his Imprudence. — He is a Quietist in Practice. — Devout Di- 
rection inclines to Quietism. — Mental Paralysis. - - - - 92 

CHAPTER X. 

The ** Guide" of Molinos. — Part which he played as Director. — Hy- 
pocritical austerity. — Immoral Doctrine. — Molinos approved at 
Rome, 167.5. — Molinos condemned at Rome, 1687. — His Manners 
conformed to his Doctrine. — The Spanish Molinosistas. — The Mo- 
ther Agueda. - -. - - - 101 

CHAPTER XI. 

No More Systems. — An Emblem. — The Sacred Heart. — Marie Ala- 
coque.— Equivoque of the Sacred Heart. — The Seventeenth Cen- 
tury is the Century of Equivoque. — Chimerical PoUcy of the Je- 
suiti;. — Father La Colombiere and Marie Alacoque, 1675. — Papist 
Conspiracy in England. — First Altar of the Sacred Heart, 1685. — 
Ruin of the Galileans, 1693.— Of the Quietists, 1698.— Of Port 
Royal, 1709. — Theology of Annihilation in the Eighteenth Cen- 
tury.— Jesuit Art." 109 



CONTENTS. 



PART SECOND. 

OF DIRECTION IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULARLY IN THE NINE- 
TEENTH CENTURY. 

CHAPTER I. 
Resemblances and Differences between the seventeenth and nine- 
teenth Centuries. — Christian Art. — It i§ we who have raised up the 
Church. — What it adds to the Power of the Priest. — The Confes- 
sional. 125 

CHAPTER II. 
The Confessional.'— The actual Education of the Young Confessor. 
— The Confessor of the Middle Ages.— 1st. He Believed.— 2d. He 
Mortified Himself. — 3d. He was Superior by Education. — 4th. He 
knew less how to Question. -^The Casuists wrote for their own 
Times. — The Rocks of the Voung Confessor. — How he strength- 
ens his tottering Position. 132 

CHAPTER IIL 
The Confessional. — The Confessor and the Husband. — ^How the 
Wife becomes isolated. — The Director. — The Directors reunited. 
— The ecclesiastical Police. 139 

CHAPTER IV. 
Habit. — Its Power, its insensible Beginnings, its Progress, second 
Nature, frequently baneful. — A man labouring under the Power of 
Habit, can he free himself from it ? 145 

CHAPTER V. 

Convents. — Absolute Power of the Director. — State of the Nun, for- 
saken, watched. — Convents, which are at once Houses of Force 
and Lunatic Houses.— Inveigling. — Barbarous Discipline. — Struggle 
between the Superior and Director. — Change of the Director. — 
The Magistrate. 151 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Absorption of the Will. — Rule of Actions, Thoughts, the Will. 
— Assimilation. — Transhumanation. — To become the Ciod is an- 
other Pride. — Want of Power. — Pride and Concupiscence. - 161 

1* 



10 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Concupiscence. — Consequences of Absorption and Assimilation. — 
Terrors of the other World. — The Physician and the sick Wo- 
man. — Alternatives. — Citations. — Effects of Fear in Love. — To be 
able to do all, and to abstain. — Dispute between the Spirit and the 
Flesh. — Death carries off the Living. — She will not revive. - - 167 



PART THIRD. 

THE FAMILY. 

CHAPTER L 

Schism in the Family. — The Daughter, by whom educated. — Im- 
portance of Education, and Advantage of the First Occupation of 
the Mind. — Influence of the Priest over JMarriage, which he keeps 
often after Marriage. 177 

CHAPTER IL 

The Woman.— The Husband does not associate the Wife with him- 
self, and rarely knows how to initiate her into his habits of Thought. 
— What the mutual Initiation should be. — The Woman consoles 
herself with her Son — he is taken from her. — Isolation and Ennui. 
— A pious Young Man. — The Priest and the Secular. — Which, in 
onr day, is the Man of Penance ? 183 

CHAPTER III. 

The Mother. — For a long time she alone can take Charge of the 
Child. — The Child guarantees the Mother, the Mother the Child. 
— The Mother guarantees the Youth, and protects his native Ori- 
ginahty. — Public Education, and the Father himself, check that 
Originality. — Maternal Feebleness. — The Mother wishes to make 
a Hero. — Heroic disinterestedness of maternal Love. - - - 191 

CHAPTER IV. 

Love. — Love elevates, not absorbs. — False Theory of our Adversa- 
ries, and their dangerous Practice. — Love wishes to create itself 
an Equal, which freely loves. — Love in the World, and in the civil 
World. — Love in the Family httle understood in the Middle Ages. 
— Religion of the Fireside. 198 



PEEMCE 

TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



The Family is in question : 

That asylum where we would gladly repose, after so 
many profitless efforts and dissipated illusions. We come 
home sadly wearied. Do we find repose there ? 

It will not do to dissemble. We must frankly acknow- 
ledge to ourselves the state of things as they are. There 
exists in the bosoms of our families a grave dissension — 
the most serious of all dissensions. 

We may converse with our mothers, our wives, our 
daughters, on the common-place themes upon which we 
talk with mere acquaintances. We may speak upon busi- 
ness — upon the news of the day — but we may not open 
our lips in relation to the subjects nearest the heart — the 
moral life, the things of eternity, religion, the soul, the 
Deity. 

Take the hour when one would fain unite with his fami- 
ly circle in a sympathetic community of thought — the hour 
of repose around the evening board. There, in your own 
home, at your own fireside, venture a word on these sub- 
jects. Your mother sadly shakes her head — your wife 
contradicts you — your daughter, though she remain silent, 
disapproves. 

vii 



via PREFACE. 

It would seem as if, in the midst of the women of your 
household, there sat an invisible man to contradict what 
you may utter. 

And why should we be astonished at this state of the 
domestic relations? Our wives and daughters are edu- 
cated and governed by our enemies. 

This word has cost me a struggle to write, for many 
reasons, which I shall state at the close of the volume ; but 
I have not passed my life in the search of truth to sacrifice 
it to-day to my personal feelings. 

They are enemies of tlie modern mind^ enemies of liberty^ 
and of the future. It matters nothing that such a preacher 
or such a sermon is cited as democratic. Where one voice 
speaks in favour of liberty, fifty thousand are raised against 
it. Whom do they think to deceive by an artifice so gross 
and palpable ? 

Our enemies^ I repeat it, in a sense the most direct, be- 
cause they are naturally envious of marriage, and of do- 
mestic life. This, I well know, is less their fault than 
their misfortune. An old dead system, which works me- 
chanically, is fit only for the dead. Life, however, will 
assert itself in the priest. He bitterly feels that he is shut 
out of the comfort of a family — he consoles himself in tor- 
menting us in our households ! 

What will wreck this system is the apparent force which 
it has drawn recently from its unity, and the rash confi- 
dence which that has given it. Is this a moral unity — a 
real association of mind? Nothing like it! In a dead 
body, all the elements, if you let it alone, fall apart of their 
own tendency. But that does not forbid that with an iron 
frame you should bind together the dead carcass. Nay, it 
may be better done than with the living — you press it into 
a compact mass, and hurl it against adversaries. 

The spirit of death, or — let us call it by its true name- — 



PREFACE. IX 

Jesuitism, in other days neutralized by the various reli- 
gious orders, corporations, and parties, is now the common 
SPIRIT which the clergy receive by a special education, — a 
fact which some of the leaders make no difficulty of avow- 
ing. A bishop has said, <-' We are Jesuits — all Jesuits^ 
Nobody has ventured to contradict him. 

But for the most part the priesthood have not so much 
frankness. Jesuitism acts powerfully by those who are 
believed to be strangers to it — by the schools which edu- 
cate the clergy — by the ignoramuses who educate the 
people — by the officers of the system which governs six 
thousand Sisters of Charity. Jesuits have a hand in hos- 
pitals, schools, charitable institutions, and every thing of 
that nature. 

With so many establishments — and so much money — 
with the pulpit in which to cry aloud, and the confessional 
in which to whisper low — with the charge of the education 
of two hundred thousand boys* and six hundred thousand 
girls — the spiritual direction of many millions of women : — 
Behold a vast machine ! The unity which it possesses now, 
might, it would seem, alarm the state. Far from this, the 
combinations which the state forbids among the laity, it 
encourages among ecclesiastics. It has permitted them to 
engage in a most dangerous commencement among the 
poorer classes ; — assemblies of workmen and of apprentices 
— associations of domestics who render accounts to the 
priests. Unity of action, and the monopoly of combina- 
tion are certainly two great forces. 

Well, with all this, it is a strange thing that the priest- 

* There will not be found a word in this volume on the grave 
question which is here raised. Are those Avho have the daughters, 
to add the sons also to their monstrous monopoly] Will France 
confide her children to the subjects of a foreign prince] I have 
confidence in the good sense of the Chambers. 



X PREFACE. 

hood is feeble ! This will appear more palpably hereafter, 
so soon as the clergy shall cease to receive aid from the 
state. It is manifest, indeed, now. 

Armed with such aids, and with that farther ally which 
they have recently added — an active press; labouring 
everywhere, in the saloons, the legislature, the journals, 
the Jesuits have still not advanced one step ! 

And why do you not advance ? If you will cease, an 
instant, your outcries and gesticulations, I will tell you. 
You are loud in clamour and many in number. You are 
strong in a thousand materials — money, credit, intrigue — 
all carnal weapons. But you are weak in God ! 

Nay, interrupt us with no new outcry at this point. Let 
us reason the matter further. Let us attempt, if you are 
men, to examine together what religion is. Possibly you 
spiritual men may not place it entirely in material things — 
in incense and the consecrated water. God should be, 
with you as with us, the God of the Spirit, of Truth, and 
of Charity. 

The God of Truth has been revealed more in the two 
last centuries than in the ten preceding. By whose efforts 
has this been accomplished ? Not by you, but by those 
whom you term the Laity ^ but w^ho have been the Priests of 
Truth, You cannot claim one of the grand discoveries, 
one of the durable works which mark the progress of 
science. 

The God of Charity, of Equity, of Humanity, has per- 
mitted us to substitute humane laws for the cruel systems 
of the middle ages. But you would maintain the latter in 
all its barbarity.* The exclusive system of the middle 
ages suppresses contradiction, though it be done only by 
killing the contradictor. Ours admits differences of opi- 

* See, among other facts, those in chapter 5th of Part Second. 



PREFACE. XI 

nion — from the union of divers tones it creates harmony. 
We wish not that an enemy may die, but Uve and become 
a friend. <^ Save fhe vanquished," cried Henry, after the 
Battle of Ivri. " Kill All !" said Pope Pius V. to the 
soldiers whom he sent into France, before the mSsacre of 
St. Bartholomew.* 

Your principle is the old and barbarously exclusive one 
which kills those who contradict it. You speak eloquently 
of charity. That, indeed, is not difficult, when the speaker 
takes care, as you do, to except his enemies from its 
operation. 

God, who appears in our day in the progress of know- 
ledge, in the gentleness of manners, in the equity of law — 
why do you disown him ? It is for this that you are feeble 
— because you are impious. One thing you lack amid all 
your possessions — and that great lack is Religion. 

What gives the present age its importance — nay, I may 
venture to say its sanctity — is the conscientious labour, 
which advances without distraction the common progress 
of humanity, and facilitates at its own expense the labour 
of the future. Our ancestors have dreamed much — dis- 
puted much. We of this age are labourers — behold how 
our furrows have been blessed ! The soil which the mid- 
dle ages left fall of brambles has produced a harvest so 
abundant that it already envelopes, and will soon utterly 
conceal, the boundary which it was indolently believed 
must arrest the progress of the plough. 

It is because we are labourers — because w^e daily return 
fatigued to our homes, that we have need, above all others, 
of repose in our domestic affections. It is necessary that 
our fireside should be truly our fireside, our table our own 



* The authority for this statement is the Life of Pius V. by Catena, 
published at Rome, and of course by permission. 



Xll PREFACE. 

table. We cannot endure to find at home, in lieu of re- 
pose, the old disputes with which the world has done — 
we cannot tolerate that our w^ife or child should recite in 
our ears, in the words of another man, a lesson learned of 
him. 

Women readily follow the strong. How is it that in 
this case they have attached themselves to the weak ? 

It follows of necessity that the wicked weak w^ill supply 
by craft and artifice the deficiency of strength. That dark 
art, which suspends and fascinates the will, weakens and 
humbles it, I have sought to trace in this volume. In the 
seventeenth century the theory of "Direction" was pub- 
lished — in ours the practice is continued. 

Usurpation does not confer a right. Those who have 
furtively usurped, are neither the better nor the stronger for 
\vhat they have assumed. The mind and reason alone 
give a right to the strong over the w^eak — not indeed far- 
ther to enfeeble, but to strengthen. 

The modern, the man of the future, will not resign w^oman 
to the influences of the man of the past. The spiritual di- 
rection of the confessor is, as w^e are about to see, a mar- 
riage more powerful than the other — a spiritual union. 
But he who has the spirit has all. Young man ! espouse 
one of whom another has the soul, and it follows that such 
a marriage is to espouse divorce ! 

Things must not thus continue. Marriage must again 
become marriage indeed. The husband must associate 
the wife with himself, in the round of ideas and of progress 
more intimately than he has done hitherto. He must sus- 
tain her if she wearies, and support her in an even pace 
with himself. Man is not innocent of what he now suffers 
— he is constrained to accuse himself of it. In this time 
of ardent emulation, and far-reaching research, man, anx- 
ious to press to the future, has left woman behind him. 



PREFACE. XUl 

He has precipitated himself in advance — she has receded. 
Let this happen no longer. Take her by the hand ! Hear 
you not your infant's cry ? The Past and the Future you 
are seeking by different paths. You will find both united 
in the cradle of the child ! 



My course for 1844 will shortly be published under the 
title of Rome and France. 

The theme of this book, intimated in two or three of my 
lectures, could not be treated there. It is of a nature too 
familiar. 

The work presented a grave difficulty — that of speaking 
with decency on a subject which our adversaries have 
treated with incredible grossness. '^ To the pure all things 
are pure" — I know the maxim, but I have often preferred 
to let my opponents, escape, when I had them in my power, 
rather than follow them into the marsh and mire. 

The FIRST PART treats of Direction in the Seven- 
teenth Century. I have cited my historical proofs from 
among the best and purest of my adversaries — not from 
among those whose testimony would have been of most 
value. The seventeenth century was that in which I found 
written testimony ; in that age alone was the hardihood 
shown of putting in full light the Theory of Direction. 

I could have multiplied quotations to infinity ; but those 
who have read the History of Louis XI. know what value 
I place upon trifling detail. I have cited little, but that 
exacdy, and carefully verified. The falsifiers, whom we 
have taken in flagranti delicto at each step of our historical 
studies, are bold indeed to speak of exactness. They can 
talk at their pleasure, but they will never succeed in in- 
ducing us to put their names face to face with names known 
for honesty. 

2 



XIV PREFACE. 

SECOND PART. Of Direction in General, and 

ESPECIALLY IN THE NINETEENTH CeNTURY. This SeCOnd 

part is the result of a careful inquiry into contemporary 
facts. I have seen, listened, interrogated ; I have weighed 
the evidence, and compared it with facts which I knew 
Jong ago. These facts more ancient, and that recent inquiry, 
I have tested before the jury which I bear within me. 

THIRD PART. Of the Family. I make no pre- 
tensions fully to discuss this vast subject. I wish simply 
to indicate what marriage and the family relations should 
be in their truth and integrity ; and how the circle, broken 
in upon by a foreign influence, can be repaired and re- 
established. 

I think it my duty to close with one word to my adver- 
saries. I have written this book without hate. I will 
willingly say, reversing the pagan i^ientiment, " my 
enemies, there are no such things as enemies." If this book, 
severe as it may be upon the priests, shall have any effect 
upon the future, it is the priests who will be most benefited. 
Many among them have thus judged of it ; and have made 
no difficulty in answering my inquiries. Yes — may this 
book, all feeble as it is, hasten the time, when, freed from 
an artificial system, in our day absurd and impossible, the 
priest may become a man again, resume his natural posi- 
tion, and take his place in the midst of us. 

Jan. 1845. 



PART FIRST. 



SPIRITUAL DIRECTION IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 



W CHAPTER I. 

Devout Reaction of 1 600. — Influence of the Jesuits over Women and Children. 
— The Savoyards. — The Vaudois, — Violence and Gentleness. — St. Francis 
of Sales. 

All the world has seen, in the gallery of the Louvre, Gui- 
do's beautiful picture — The Annunciation. The drawing is 
incorrect, the coloring false— and yet, notwithstanding all, the 
the effect is enchanting. Seek not there the scrupulous aus- 
terity of the old schools. Nor will you find in Guido the 
young and strong hand of the masters of the Renaissance. 
The sixteenth century had passed, and at the date of this 
picture, all was softened. The figure in Avhich the painter 
evidently delighted — the angel — according to the refinement 
of that effeminate day,* is a pretty youth of the choir — a 
cherub of the sacristy. He is apparently sixteen — tlie Virgin 
eighteen or twenty. The Virgin has nothing of the ideal or 
spiritual — the representation is altogether earthly : the portrait 
of a young Italian whom Guido painted at home, in his little 
oratory, on a commodious " Prie-Dieu," or desk for prayer, 
such as was then used by the ladies of the court. 

If the painter w^as inspired, it was not by the Gospel. His 
inspiration was much more probably by the devout romances 

* ** Epoqiie hlasCey The force of the expression cannot cusily be given 
in English. 

15 



16 DEVOUT REACTION. "^ 

of that period, or the fashionable sermons which the Jesuits 
pronounced in their pulpit blandishments. The Angelic Salu- 
tation^ the Visitation^ and the Annunciation^ were the subjects 
on which the imagination had long been exercised by seraphic 
gallantry. While looking at the picture of Guido, one almost 
thinks that he is reading Bernardino. We fancy that we hear 
the Angel speak Latin like a learned young clerk — the Virgin, 
a well educated damsel, answers in her own sweet Italian — 
'^ O alio signore .'" This picture is valuable, as characteristic 
of its day. 

Recall the gentle forms taken by the devout reaction of this 
era, that of Henry IV. One is astonished • on the morrow 
after the sixteenth century to hear the chirping of a sweet 
little voice. The terrible preachers of the sixteenth century, the 
monks who carried muskets in the processions of the League, 
have suddenly become humane — in an instant, they have 
changed into benignity. It was necessary thus to lull to sleep 
those whom they had not succeeded in killing. Nor was this 
undertaking difficult. All the world had need of sleep after 
the religious '%vars ; each had more than sufficient of a strug- 
gle without result, a combat in which nobody was victor; 
each knew his own party and his friends too well. At the end 
of so long a journey he must have been a good traveller who 
did not long for repose. The indefatigable Henry slept him- 
self like the others, or wishing them to sleep, gave them the 
example ; and surrendered himself with a good grace into the 
hands of his intriguing mistress Gabrielle d'Entragues, and 
his confessor father Pierre Cotton. 

Henry IV. was the grandfather of Louis XIV. ; Cotton the 
grand-uncle of Father la Chaise — representatives of two king- 
doms, two dynasties — one that of kings, the other that of the 
Jesuit confessors. The history of the dynasty of the Jesuits 
would be very interesting. They reigned during the whole 
century, those amiable fathers, by the force of absolution and 
pardon — by shutting the eyes and keeping the mind in igno- 



JESUITS AND KINGS. 17 

ranee. They reached grand results by the most pitifully 
small means, and little concessions — secret transactions — rear 
entrances — back stairs. 

The Jesuits could have pleaded that, pledged to restore the 
authority of the pope — that is to say, to administer medicine 
to the dead-— they could have little choice of measures. Driven, 
without a hope of return, from the world of ideas, where could 
they resume the war, except in the field of intrigue, of passion, 
of human weakness ? 

There, no person could more actively serve them than the 
w^omen. When they did not labour openly with the Jesuits, and 
for them ; they were not the less useful indirectly, as instru- 
ments and means — the objects of daily compromises and trans- 
actions between the penitent and the confessor. 

The tactics of the confessor do not differ much from the 
artifices of the mistress. The policy of the Jesuit, like that 
of the mistress, is often to reject; to make the suppliant languish 
by postponement ; to punish, but gently, and at last to permit 
himself, by too great bounty of heart, to melt into kindness 
This little management, infallible with a monarch both a gal- 
lant and a devotee, and compelled to receive the sacrament on 
certain fixed days, often put the state entirely in the power of 
the confessional. The king being thus caught and held, it was 
absolutely necessary that he should ransom himself in some 
manner or other. This amour cost him a state secret to the 
Jesuits — that illegitimate an ordinance in their favour. Some- 
limes they would not release him without a pledge. To keep 
a mistress, for example, he was required to give up a son. 
How much Father Cotton must have dispensed to Henry IV 
to obtain of him the education of tlie Dauphin I* 

In this great enterprise, of enslaving man every where by 

* The master-piece of Jesuit policy was obtaining the appointment of 
the most superficial man in Franco, the shopliortl poet, Pes Tvetenux, ns 
the preceptor of the Dauphin — the Jesuit reserving to himself his moral and 
religious culture. 

2* 



18 JESUITS AND WOMEN. 

means of woman — and the child also by the mother — the Je- 
suits encountered more than one obstacle ; and one in particular 
formidable above all others — their own reputation. They 
were already too well known. One may read in the letters of 
St. Charles Borromeo, who had established them at Milan, and 
singularly favoured them, the character which he gives them — 
intriguing, shuffling, and assuming cringing, creeping disguises 
as masks for their overbearing pretensions. Even penitents, 
who found them, as confessors, very accommodating, could 
not always avoid a feeling of disgust toward them. The most 
simple easily discerned that an order which found all opinions 
probable^ could hold none of its own. These famous cham- 
pions of the faith in ethics were skeptics; nay, worse than 
skeptics. Theoretical skepticism may leave some sentiment of 
honour — but a doubter in practice — a man who now says yes 
by one act, and again yes to its contrary by another, must, of 
necessity, sink continually in morals ; and lose, not only all 
principle, but, at length, all moral feelings and affections. 

Their very appearance was a lampoon upon themselves. — 
Too clever in enveloping, they swathed themselves about 
with deceit, till it was visible and palpable. Like brass, badly 
gilded, or tlie toy saints in their gaudy churches, they were 
brilliant in counterfeit splendour at a little distance. False in 
expression, and in accent *, in gesture, and in attitude affected ; 
exaggerated and overdone in the making up, they were in too 
great haste to change with their position ; versatile to an excess 
which put men on their guard even while it amused them. 
They could dexterously assume a part, or change the -coun- 
tenance with the hour ; but assumed graces, and behaviour too 
wisely cautious, and mutable — movements tortuous and ser- 
pentine, beget any thing but the confidence of men who watch 
the actor. They laboured hard to seem simple, humble, lowly, 
honest people — but their grimaces betrayed them. 

These people of equivocal mien had among the women a 
merit which atoned for all deficiencies — thev loved children 



PARADISE BEHIND A GLASS. 



19 



so dearly! Never a mother, a grandmother, or a nurse could 
better flatter the babe into a laugh with nursery gibberish, hi 
the churches of the Jesuits, the good saints of the order, St. 
Xavier and St. Ignatius are often painted, by an absurd ana- 
chronism, holding in their arms, cradling and kissing the 
divine infant.* It was also on their altars and in their deco- 
rated chapels, where was commenced the manufacture of those 
little paradises behind a glass, into which women delight 
to look, and see a wax infant reposing amid flowers. The 
Jesuits love children so much, that they would be but too 
happy to educate all who are born. Not one of them, how- 
ever learned, would have disdained to play the pedagogue, to 
instruct children in the first rudiments of grammar, and teach 
lads to decline. 

Meanwhile there were many people, friends of the Jesuits, 
their penitents even, who would trust their souls with them, 
but Ijesitated to confide their sons to Jesuitical care. They 
would have been less successful even with women and 
children, if happy chance had not given them a great infant^ 
as an auxiliary — an infant gentle and wise, who possessed 
precisely what the Jesuits lacked, to inspire confidence — a 
charming simplicity. 

This friend of the Jesuits, who served them all the better 
that he was not himself a Jesuit, naively created, to the profit 
of these religious politicians, what they had long sought 'to in- 
vent or discover — the species, the tone, the true style of la ''' dc- 
votion aiseey The false never can assume the shade of life 
which it could take, if it had been one moment true. But be- 
fore I speak of Francis of Sales, I must say a word of the 
theatre in which he moved. 

The grand eflbrt of the ultramontane reaction, towards tlie 
year 1600, was on the Alps, in Switzerland and in Savoy. 



* " Le divine poupon," is the phrase found frequently in the pages of St. 
Francis of Sales, and other writers of that epoch. 



20 VAUDOIS PERSECUTIONS. 

They laboured strongly on both declivities, but employed 
means totally different. They showed on the two sides two 
opposite visages — the face of an angel and the aspect of a 
beast. The ferocious beast was in Piedmont against the poor 
Vaudois. In Savoy, and toward Geneva, they wore the angel 
visage. They could hardly do otherwise than deal kindly 
with a population whose peace treaties guarantied, and who 
had been shielded against violence by the lances of the Swiss. 

The agent of Rome in these quarters was the celebrated 
Jesuit, Antonio Possevino,* the professor, the erudite scholar, 
the confessor of the kings of the North. He himself organized 
the persecutions against the Vaudois in Piedmont, and he 
formed and directed his pupil, Francis of Sales, to gain over 
by address the Protestants of Savoy. 

That terrible history of the Vaudois ! How can I speak of 
it — or how can 1 hold my peace ? Speak of it ! It is too 
cruel. One cannot recount it, that his pen does not hesitate — 
his ink is weakened with tears.f If, how^ever, I said nothing 
1 could not make the reader fully appreciate the most odious 
hypocrisy of the system, the artful policy which employed 
totally opposite means for the same object — here, brutal 
ferocity, there, a strange gentleness. One word, and I shall 
have done with this. The most cruel executioners were 
loomen ! the penitents of the Jesuits of Turin ; the victims 
w^re children! In the sixteenth century, they destroyed in- 
fants. There were four hundred children burned at one time 
in a cavern. In the seventeenth century they stole them. The 
edict of pacification, granted to the Vaudois in 1655, promises, 

* See his Life by Dorigny ; and the Life of St. Francis by Bonneville. 

t Read the three great Vaudois historians, Gilles, Leger, Arnaud. Con- 
sult the excellent map, and description of the country, in the History of 
M. Muston. When I entertained at my house, with so much interest, 
this son of the martyrs, I was far from imagining that his book, so marked 
by moderation, and by forgetfulness and pardon of injury, would cause his 
expatriation. 



WAR OF FASCINATION. 21 

as a singular act of grace, that their children aged less than 
twelve should no more be taken. Above that age the theft 
was still permitted. 

This new description of persecution — more barbarous than 
massacre — characterized the epoch when the Jesuits devoted 
themselves, above all other objects, to the education of youth. 
These merciless plagiarists* wished only to educate them in 
their own similitude — to prepare them to abjure their faith— hate 
their families, and arm themselves against their own kindred. 

It was, as I have stated, a Jesuit professor, Possevino, who 
renewed the persecution toward the time with which we are 
now occupied. The same man, while teaching at Padua, had 
for a pupil the young Francis of Sales, who had already passed 
a year at Paris, at the college of Clermont.f He was of one 
of those families of Savoy, very military and very devout, who, 
for so long a time, made war with Geneva. For the war of 
seduction over to his faith, which Francis was about to com- 
mence, he possessed all the necessary arms : devotion, tender 
and sincere ; language lively and ardent ; and a singular charm 
in his personal appearance ; generosity, beauty, gentle grace. 
Who has not felt this fascination in the smile of the children 
of Savoy — simple, but so intelligent! 

All the virtues which heaven accords to man, must have 
been bountifully bestowed on him, we must fain believe, — 
since, notwithstanding the evil times, the bad odour, the wicked 
party among which he laboured in an artful and false world, 
— he remains still, for all that. Saint Francis of Sales. All 
that he has said or written, if not irreproachable, is cliarming, 

* Ptagiarius, in its proper sense, signifies a man-slealer. 

t The beautiful portrait of Sainte Beuve, which every body has read, 
permits me to omit a crowd of details. I have simply thought it my duty 
to indicate, wiih precision, the influence which the .Tcsuits exercised on 
the saint, and the manner in which ihcy a<'complished il. Read the biogra- 
phies by the Capuchin Bonneville, Friar Jean de St. Francois, the i\h)nk 
La Riviere, the Jesuit 'I'alon, Longueterrc, the J^ishop Maupas, of Tours, 
and, above all, thcLcticrs of the saint himself. 



22 MENAGE, OU MANEGE ? 

— full of heart and of the natural ease of a child of genius who, 
often causing us to smile, moves our sensibilities, neverthe- 
less. There are every where living springs which bubble 
forth — flowers upon flowers — little books which are murmur- 
ing, as on a beautiful spring morning after a shower. It is 
hardly necessary to say, that he amuses himself quite too 
much with flowerets — that his bouquets are often those of a 
market woman, as his Philothea would say, rather than the 
simple buds of a shepherdess. He plucks all and far too many, 
and there are in the number colours coarse and ill-assorted. But 
this was the taste of his time; and the taste of the Savoyard, 
in particular, never fears the unrefined — nor would his educa- 
tion by the Jesuits teach him to avoid the false and specious. 

But even if he had been a less charming writer, the singular 
attractiveness of his appearance would not have been less ef- 
fective. His fair face and sweet figure, always inclining to the 
infantile, ravished at first sight. Little children, in the arms 
of the nurse, could not, when they had once caught a glimpse 
of him, withdraw their eyes. He passed his hands as if un- 
consciously over their heads — " Behold my little family," he 
would say, " Behold my little family !" Children ran after him 
— and mothers after their children. 

" Voila mon petit menage /" a curious conceit presents itself 
— " Petit menage^'^^ — or '^ Petit manege V little family, or — 
little artifice ? Though a child in appearance, at bottom the 
good man, with all his simplicity, was very shrewd. If he 
permitted to the devout such and such a little falsehood,* is 
it necessary to believe that he denied the same privilege to 
himself? However that might be, his actual deceit was less 
in his words than in his position. He was content to be a 
bishop for the purpose of giving the example of sacrificing to 
the Pope the rights of the bishops. For the love of peace, 
and to cover with an apparent union the divisions of the Ca- 

* Little falsehoods—little arts — Utile circumlocutions. Refer to volume 
viii. of his works, p. 196, 223, 342. Paris. "^ 



MONEY AN ARGUMENT. 23 

tholic church on the doctrine of grace, he saved the Jesuit 
Molina, accused of Pelagianism at Rome, and procured the 
decree of the Pope, imposing silence on both parties in the 
controversy. 

But Francis, naturally so amiable, did not always confine 
himself to the means of gentleness and persuasion. In his 
zeal to convert, he called to his aid agents less honourable — 
interest, money, patronage — and, at last, authority, fear. He 
set the Duke of Savoy going from village to village, and coun- 
selled him, in a word, to pursue to the death those who re- 
fused to abjure their faith.* Money, very powerful in that poor 
country, seemed to him an agent so powerful and perfectly 
irresistible, that he even went to Geneva in the hope to buy 
over the venerable Theodore Beza, and offered him, on the part 
of the pope, a pension of four thousand crowns. It was in- 
deed a curious spectacle, to see a bishop and tutelar prince of 
Geneva, going about that city to lay it under siege ; organizing 
a war of corruption against it, through France and Savoy. 
Gold and intrigue were not enough. A sweeter charm was 
necessary to soften and melt that unapproachable glacier of 
logic and criticism. Convents were founded, to attract and re- 
ceive new converts, offering them the seductive allurements of 
passion and mysticism. They remain celebrated still, by the 
renown of Madames de Chantal and Guyon. The first com- 
menced here the gentle devotions of the order of the Visita- 
tion. The second wrote there her little work ^' Des Torrents^^'* 
She seemed to be inspired with the Charmettes, Meillerie, and 
Clarens — sites and scenery near lake Geneva — like the Nou- 
velle Ileloise of llosseau — though certainly in a manner far 
less dangerous. 

* New letters published by M. Datta, 1835, vol. i. p. 247. See also, 
upon the intolerance of Saint Francis, pp. 130, 131, 13(5, 141. In volume 
ix. of his works, read his remarks upon the duty of kings to strike with 
the sword all enemies of the pope. 



(24) 



CHAPTER II. 

St. Francis of Sales and Madame de Chant al — The Order of the Visitation, - 
— Quietism. — Results of Religious Direction. 

St. Francis of Sales was very popular in France, and par- 
ticularly in Burgundy, where there had remained, since the 
League, a strong leaven of religious zeal. The parliament of 
Dijon, invited him there to preach. He was welcomed by his 
friend, Andre Fremiot, who, at one time councillor of the par- 
liament, had become archbishop of Bourges. The son of a 
president highly respected at Dijon, he was brother of Madame 
de Chantal, and great-uncle of Madame de Sevigne, her grand 
daughter.* 

The biographies of St. Francis and Madame de Chantal, to 
make their meeting at this time romantic and marvellous, sup- 
pose, with very little probability, that they had never seen, 
and hardly heard each other spoken of. They had met each 
other only in their visions and ecstacies. During Lent, when 
the saint preached at Dijon, he noticed her particularly above 
all the other ladies, and as he descended from the pulpit, he 
inquired — " Who is that young widow, who listened so atten- 
tively to the Word .?" " That,'' said the archbishop, " is my 
sister, the baronness de Chantal." 

She was then, (1604) aged thirty-two years. St. Francis 
was thirty-seven. She was, therefore, born in 1572, the year 
of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. She had, from her birth 
up, something of austerity, but was ardent and impetuous. 
When she was yet but six years of age, a Huguenot gentleman 

* See the biographies of Madame de Chantal, by the Jesuit Fechet, 
and Bishop Maupas. See also her Letters, three volumes — unfortunately 
incomplete, published 1753. 



MADAME DE CHANTAL. ^ 25 

gave her some sweatmeats— she threw them in the fire. " Mon- 
sieur," she said, " see how the heretics will burn in hell, be- 
cause that they believe not the words of our Lord ! If you 
were to deny the king, my father could cause you to be 
hanged — what is the punishment then of those who continu- 
ally deny our Lord ?" 

With all her devotion and passion, she had a systematic and 
exact mind. She had well presided over the house and the 
fortune of her husband. She administered prudently the busi- 
ness of her father and father-in-law, dwelling in the house of 
the latter, who would not else have bequeathed his wealth to 
the children of Madame de Chantal. It is enchantment to read 
the lively and delightful letters which open the correspondence 
of St. Francis of Sales with his " dear sister and dear daughter." 
Nothing could be more pure, more chaste, but — why should 
we not say it ? — nothing could be more glowing and ardent. 
It is curious to observe their simple art; the caresses, the ten- 
der and ingenious flatteries with which he covers the two fami- 
lies of Fremiot and Chantal. Now he has a word for the father, 
good President Fremiot, who commences in his library to read 
pious authors, and court heavenly visions. Now he addresses 
the brother — bishop and ex-councillor — and writes expressly 
for him a little treatise upon preaching. He does not even 
neglect the rude baron of Chantal — an old wreck of the wars 
of the League, who is the cross of his daughter-in-law. But 
the little children are those to whom, above all others, he best 
makes his court. He has for them a thousand tendernesses, a 
thousand pious caresses, which could hardly have occurred, 
even to the heart of a mother. He prays for them, and begs 
that the little innocents may remember him in their prayers. 

One person alone it was difficult to soften in that family — 
the confessor of Madame de Chantal. In the stru*xde of the 
director against the confessor^ the greatest address, and most 
skilful art and management were called into requisition, and 
the purpose of the saint was followed with zealous resolution. 

3 



26 ^ ELBOWING OUT A CONFESSOR. 

The confessor was a devout personage, but of narrow and lit- 
tle mind, and little observances. The saint professed great 
friendship for him, and submitted in advance for the judgment 
of the confessor, the counsels which he should give his peni- 
tent. He offered encouragement to Madame de Chantal, who 
was not without doubts of her spiritual infidelity, and who, 
feeling herself on so easy a declivity, had fears that she had 
abandoned the narrow way of safety. The saint managed this 
scruple so adroitly to displace the confessor, that at length the 
baroness gave him to understand she could dispense with 
him. 

The saint declared, like a true victor, w^ho has nothing to 
fear, that he wished to bind her to nothing — he left her wholly 
free. The confessor, on the other hand, uneasy, chagrined, 
and jealous, wished undivided obedience from his penitents. 
The saint asked no obligation but Christian charity, which "is 
pronounced by St. Paul the bond of perfectness. All other ties 
are temporal — even that of obedience ; but charity increases 
with time, and is not cut off even by the grave. Love, says 
the Song of Solomon, is strong as death. He writes, in another 
place, with much naivete and elevation : '^ I add not a shade 
to the truth ; I speak before God, of my heart and of yours. 
Each affection has its particular difference, distinguishing it 
from all others. That which I hold for you has a certain 
particularity which infinitely consoles me, and which, above 
all, I must say, is extremely profitable to me. / did not intend 
to say so much^ but one word brought on another, and then I 
think you a person of discretion." 

From that moment, having her always before his imagina- 
tion, he associated her not only w^ith his religious thoughts, 
but, what seems a little surprising, even w^ith his acts as a priest. 
It was generally just before or after Mass that he wrote to her ; 
it was of her and of her children that he thought, he says, 
at the moment of partaking the sacrament. The two perform 
ed acts of penitence on the same days, and communed toge 



THE FIRST CONFESSION. 27 

ther, though far separated from each other. He offered her to 
God when he offered him his son* 

This wonderful man, whose serenity such a union as this 
never for an instant affected, soon perceived that the mind of 
Madame de Chantal was far from being as serene as his own. 
Her nature was strong, her heart profound. The people — the 
burgesses, the grave families of the magistracy from which she 
sprang — possessed minds less refined, but more sincere, more 
true, than the elegant and noble races who had been worn out 
in the preceding century. The burgesses were fresh ; you 
find them every where zealous and influential. In letters, in 
war, in the arts, and in religion, they gave to the seventeenth 
century all that it had of weight or excellence. 

Madame de Chantal, although she had resolved to become 
a devotee, had an unfathomable depth of passionate feeling. 
St. Francis had hardly left Dijon two months, when she wrote 
and wished to see him again. Accordingly they met, half way, 
in Upper Burgundy, at the celebrated hermitage of St. Claude. 
There she was happy, there she poured out her whole heart, 
making confession to him for the first time ; there softly uttered 
the promise to place in his loved hands her vow to a con- 
ventual life. 

Six weeks had hardly passed when she wrote that she 
wished to see him yet again. She was harassed now with 
storms and temptations. Surrounded with clouds, she doubled 
even the faith; she had no more strength of will — she would 
have flown, but alas, she had no wings ! And in the midst of 
these great and gloomy distractions this strong-minded person 
became as a little child, and begged that he would no more 
address her as Madame, but always call her "Ma S(Bur,""Ma 
Fille," as he had sometimes done. She writes in another 

* ** I have given you and your widowed heart, and your children daily to 
the Lord in oflcrincr him his son." {Lvtlvr of Nov. 1, 1605.) "Heaven 
knows that I have not communed without you, sinco my departure from 
your city." (Nov. '2\, 1004.) (Euvres, vol. 8. 



28 PRUDENCE. 

place, " There is a something within me which has never been 
satisfied." (Nov. 21, 1604.) 

The conduct of the saint is worthy of observation. Far 
from holding Madame Chantal to the promise to take the vow 
of a recluse, which she had placed in his hands, he endea- 
voured to settle and establish her in her place as mother, 
with her children, and the two old men to whom she filled 
the relation of mother as \\*ell as daughter. He recommended 
as occupations for her mind, her duties, her business, the 
payment of debts. To get rid of her doubts, she was neither 
to reflect nor reason. She washed to read some good books. 
He directed her to some bad mystical treatises. If the ass is 
obstinate, (it was thus he styled the flesh,) it is necessary to 
cajole it with some blows of discipline. 

He appeared to have felt very sensible at that time, that 
meetings between two persons so united in heart were not 
w^ithout their inconveniences. To the entreaties of Madame 
Chantal, he replies with prudence : " I am tied here, hand and 
foot; and as for you, did not the inconveniences of past jour- 
neys very much depress you .^" This was written in October, 
on the eve of a season rude enough on the Jura and on the 
Alps. ^' We shall see each other between this and Easter." 

She went at that time to see St. Francis at the house of his 
mother ; then returning to Dijon, fell dangerously sick. Occu- 
pied w^ith the controversies of that period, he seemed to neg- 
lect her. He wrote less and less, feeling no doubt the need 
of clogging the wheels upon a route which was all too rapid. 
As for her, the whole of this year (1605) was passed in strug- 
gles between doubts and temptations. She was not decided, 
at the close, whether to enter a Carmelite nunnery, or marry 
again. 

A great religious movement took place in France — very lit- 
tle spontaneous, carefully premeditated, and exceedingly artifi- 
cial, but, nevertlieless, immense in its results. Rich and pow- 
erful families, instigated by zeal and by vanity, gave it the im- 



BREAKING FAMILY tiES. 29 

pulse. By the side of the Oratory founded by cardinal Berulle, 
Madame Acarie, a devotee, engaged heart and soul in devout 
intrigues, established the female Carmelites in France, and the 
Ursulines at Paris. The impetuous austerity of Madame de 
Chantal was forcing her toward the Carmelites — she, several 
times, consulted one of their superiors, a doctor of the Sor- 
bonne.* St. Francis felt the danger, and attempted no more 
to resist Madame de ChantaPs passion for the life of a devotee. 
From that time he accepted her. In a charming letter he gave 
her, in the name of his mother, his young sister to educate. 

It would appear that while she had this beloved pledge she 
was more tranquil — but it did not remain with her long. The 
child, so much loved and cherished, died at her house, in 
her arms. She could not conceal from the saint that, in 
the height of her grief, she had desired of the Deity rather to 
take her own life — that she had prayed him to take, instead 
of her pupil, one of her own children ! 

This took place in November, 1607. Three months after, 
we find in the letters of St. Francis the first idea of drawing 
to himself a person so well proved, and who seemed other- 
wise an instrument of the designs of heaven. 

The exceeding alacrity — I might almost say the violence-— 
with which Madame de Chantal broke through all ties to fol- 
low a direction which had been given after so much delay, in- 
dicates only too evidently the warmth of the passion in her 
ardent heart. It was painfully difficult to take leave of those 
two old men, her father and father-hi-law ; and her son, it is 
said, even couched himself on her threshold to prevent her 
passing over it. The good old M.Fremiotwas gained over less 
by his daughter than by the letters which she induced St. 
Francis to write to him. We have yet extant the letter — re- 
signed, but all moistened with his tears, in which the old gen- 
tleman gave his consent. That resignation scorned not to have 
long endured. He died in a year afterwards. 

♦ Life of Berulle, by Taharaud. Works of St. Francis, vol. viii. 

3* 



30 PASSIVE OBEDIENCE. 

Passing over the body of her son, and escaping from her 
father, she arrived at Annecy. What would have been the 
result, if the saint had not provided fuel for the too powerful 
flame which he had kindled and increased, much beyond his 
wish or intention ! 

On the day after Pentecost, he called her to him, after the 
mass was ended, " Well, my daughter, I have decided what I 
will do whh you." " And I," said she, sinking upon her knees, 
" have determined to obey." " You shall enter the sisterhood 
of St. Clara." " Behold me all ready !" she answered. " No, 
you are scarcely strong enough ; you shall be a sister in the 
hospital of Beaune." "In all as you wish." "No, that is not 
yet what I would have you — be a Carmelite." He proved her 
thus in many modes, and having found her in all obedient, 
said at length — " Well, we will have nothing of all that ; hea- 
ven calls you to the Order of the Visitation." 

The Visitation had nothing of the austerity of the ancient 
orders. The founder himself said that it was almost not a 
monastic order. No troublesome observances — no vigils — few 
fasts — a brief office — short prayers, and in the commencement 
no cloisters. The sisterhood, waiting the visit of the divine 
spouse, visited him in the poor and sick, who are the living 
members of his mystical body. Nothing could have been 
better combined with devotion to calm the inward tempest 
than this mixture of active charity. Madame de Chantal, who 
had been a good mother of a family, and a wise mistress of a 
household, was happy to find, even in her mystical vocation, 
employment for her economical and exact habits of mind. 
She devoted herself to the laborious details of founding a great 
order, and of travelling, under a beloved direction, from foun- 
dation to foundation. It was a double proof of wisdom in the 
saint to employ her, and to keep her at a distance from him- 
self. 

With all this prudence, it is necessary to state that the hap- 
piness of labouring in concurrence — of founding and creating 



A DOUBLE PLACE. 31 

together a new religious order, strengthened still more an at- 
tachment already strong. It is curious to observe how they 
drew still closer the tie, in struggling to unravel it. At the 
same moment that he directed her to detach herself from him 
who was her support^ he protests that that support shall never 
fail her. On the very day on which he lost his mother, he 
wrote the following strong words : " To you I speak — to you, 
I say, to whom I have given the place of that mother in my 
memorial at the mass — but without taking from you the place 
which you had, for I know not how to do it — so firmly you 
keep what you hold in my heart — and thus you have now 
hoth her place and your ownP"^ 

I know not that an expression more strong than this was 
ever uttered upon a day so solemn. How must it have burned 
into a heart already aching with passion ? Can any one be as- 
tonished that after this she writes to him, " Pray that I may 
not survive you ?" At each instant he wounds, and heals only 
to wound anew. 

The sisterhood of the Visitation, who have published a por- 
tion of the correspondence of Madame Chantal,* have prudent- 
ly suppressed much,, which they themselves say is fit only to 
be locked up in the cabinet of charity. There remains, how- 
ever, sufficient to show how deep the wound which she car- 
ried even to the tomb.| 

* I have read in no language any thing more ardent, more indicative 
of mental struggle — more naive, and yet full of deep meaning, than a letter 
by Madame de Chantal on desire and the agony of disappointment. By 
its obscurity, no doubt it was, that this letter escaped suppression by the 
eisterhood. Letters, vol. i. p. 27, 30. See also a letter in the works of 
St. Francis, on the same subject, in vol. x., dated August, 1619. 

t Twenty years after the death of St. Francis, in the very year in which 
she herself died, (already revered as a saint), she wrote several letters to 
the stern abbe of St. Cyran, then a prisoner at Vincennes. The purpose 
is to exchange with him the rccollcciions of the dear departed. Even that 
most austere of men, the abbe seemed for a moment touched and softened. 
Vide Letters Christian and Spiritual of Jean du Vergicr de Ilauranne, abb6 
of St. Cyran. 



32 A MIRACLE. 

The Visitation being sustained neither by active charity, 
which was interdicted soon after the foundation, nor by the intel- 
lectual culture, which had constituted the life of the holy spirit 
in other convents of the middle ages, there remained for it, it 
would appear, only mystical ascetism. But the moderation 
of the founder, in conformity with the lukewarmness of the 
times, had banished from the institution the austerities of the an- 
cient orders — those cruel observances, which killed the senses, 
and even the body. There was, then, in the new order, 
neither activity, study, nor austerity. In this void two things 
showed themselves at the commencement. One was a trifling 
spirit in the taste for small observances and bizarre acts of de- 
votion like that of Madame Chantal, in pricking into her flesh 
the name of the Saviour. The other was an attachment to the 
director without rule, bound, or measure. 

In all that concerned St. Francis of Sales, Madame de Chan- 
tal exhibited great weakness. After his death, her mind wan- 
dered, and she gave way to the complete dominion of dreams 
and visions. She believed that she recognized his dear pre- 
sence, in the churches, in a celestial perfume, which she alone 
perceived. She carried to him, in his tomb, a little book, com- 
posed entirely of what he had said or written on the Visitation, 
and prayed that if there was any thing contained in it contrary 
to his intentions, he would cause it to be obliterated ! 

In 1631, ten years after the death of St. Francis, his tomb 
was opened with solemn observances, and his body was found 
still entire. " It was placed in the sacristy of the monastery, 
where, at nine in the evening, the world having retired, she 
called together her community, and made an oration near the 
body, in an ecstacy of love and humility. Forbidden to touch 
the body, she gave a signal proof of obedience and self-denial 
in abstaining even from kissing her hand to him. On the 
morning of the next day, having obtained permission, she 
stooped to carry the hand of the ever blessed to her head. As 
if he had been in life^ the hand acknowledged her devotion, 



SPIRITUAL LOVE AND INDIFFERENCE. 33 

by a paternal and tender caress. She distinctly felt this super- 
natural motion. The veil which she then wore is still kept, 
as a relic of double sanctity." 

Although others may be embarrassed here to find the true 
iftime for this respectable sentiment, it is only a false reserve 
which arrests them. They call it filial love, or fraternal love. 
We call it by a name which we esteem sacred, simply, love. 

We must believe St. Francis when he declares that this sen- 
timent powerfully assisted his spiritual progress. But it was 
not equal to this in all cases. We must examine what was the 
effect of it upon Madame Chantal. 

All the doctrine which can be found in the works of St. 
Francis, full as they are of excellent practical counsels, may 
be summed in the two words love and wait — wait the visitation 
of the Divine Spouse. Far from counselling the action or the 
exercise of the will, he fears even the movement of volition. 
He even excepts to the word union with God, because it im- 
plies a movement to obtain it. He prefers the word unity. — 
The devotee must wait and rest in love and indifference, " I 
desire few things," the saint writes, " and those but faintly. I 
have next to no desires — if I was to be born again, I would 
have none whatever. If God would come to me I would also 
go to him ; if he would not come to me, I would contain my- 
self, and not go to liim?'^ 

This absence of desires excludes even the desire of virtue. 
This is the last conclusion to which the saint had arrived a 
little before his death. He writes, on the 10th of August, 
1619 : " Say that you renounce all virtues, desiring only such 
as God will give you — nor wishing to make any exertion to ac- 
quire them,, except as God will give them of his own good 
pleasure." 

If the devotee's own will disappears at this point — what 
should take its place ? The will of God, it would seem. But 
we must not forget that if such a miracle should take place, it 
must result in a state of unalterable peace, and constant 



34 SAD END TO LONG LIFE. 

strength. By this evidence, and no other, could we recognise 
this state of perfection. 

Madame Chantal betrays to us that the effect in her case was 
entirely different. Although the Sisterhood have ably arranged 
her life, and mutilated her letters, there remains enough tb 
show in what a storm of passion she passed her days. Her 
entire life — a long life, occupied with engrossing cares, the 
details of foundation and administration — was not sufficient to 
calm her spirit. Time wore out and destroyed her body with- 
out changing or relieving the continual martrydom which she 
endured within. She made this avowal in her last days : "All 
the pain which I have endured during my whole life, is not to 
be compared with the torment which I suffer now, being re- 
duced to such a state that nothing can content me — nothing 
can give me any solace, except that one word — dealhP^ 

She needed not to have declared this — we could have dis- 
covered it without her admission. That exclusive culture of 
the sensibility — although there are some virtues which can 
make it noble — has the inevitable result of disturbing the soul, 
and rendering it feeble and suffering to the last degree. It is 
not with impunity that we can absorb, in love, the will which 
gives man strength, and the reason which gives him peace. 

I have spoken elsewhere* of the rare but beautiful examples 
which the middle ages give of religious dogmas which unite 
science and piety. Those who constructed them thus, had no 
fear of developing by them the reason and the will. Science, 
it has been objected, renders the soul inquiet, and, too curious. 
It removes us from God. They reason as if there could be truth 
which is not in him — as if the divine light reflected in science 
had not a soothing virtue — a power to calm the heart by com- 
municating a knowledge of eternal truths, and of the indestructi- 
ble laws which shall still remain, when worlds have passed away. 

In all this whom shall I blame ? Man } God forbid ! It 

* In a fragment upon the education of women in the middle ages, re- 
printed at the end of my Introduction to Universal History, third edition. 



QUIETISM. 35 

is the fault of method only This method, which, when re- 
duced to a system, was called quietism, and which, as we 
shall presently see, is the general system of the direction of 
devotees* is nothing else than the encouragement of our pas- 
siveness, and the development of our instinct for inertia. The 
result at last is the paralysis of the will, the prostration of 
what constitutes man. 

St. Francis of Sales was one of the few who could revive a 
dead system. No person less than he, so true and pure, could 
have introduced his system at that epoch. He opened in the 
seventeenth century, the door to the passive paths of religious 
orders. In the dawn of the century, in the freshness of the morn- 
ing, while the breeze comes from the Alps, we find Madame 
Chantal exhausted and stifling for breath. How then will it 
be in the evening ? 

The good, holy man, St. Francis, images himself, in one of 
his letters, as afloat on the lake of Geneva in a little barque, 
conducted by Providence. He is obedient '^ to the pilot who 
forbids him from rowing, and is perfectly at ease, though only 
three fingers width of board support him." The Age is em- 
barked with him, and trusting his benevolent guide, he glides 
amid the rocks and shoals. The deep waters are those of 
Quietism ; and if your eye is keen, in their transparent abyss 
you may already discern Molinos.| 

* So inherent is this in devout direction that we find it even in the pro- 
fessed enemies of Quietism. Vide letters of Bousset to the religious orders 
under his direction. 

+ The principle is the same with St. Francis of Sales and all Qulcfisfs; 
the degree only didbrs. The principle is the overthrow — the annihilation 
of the will, set up as the ideal of perfectiou. St. Francis did not reconi- 
mend this entire absence of desire as the hnhitual state of the soul ; the 
others wish that this state which is that of perfection, should become ha- 
bitual if possible (Fenclon) — or even perpetual (Moiinos.) Bossuet sought 
and found in St. Francis, some passages contrary to his general doctrine, 
but they only prove that the saint is not consistent. 



(36) 



CHAPTER III. 

Isolation of Women. — " Devotion Aisee?'^ — Worldly Theology of the Jesuits 
and of Rome. — '* Managements^ of Women and Children. — Thirty years 
War. — Gallant Devotion. — Devout Romances. — Casuists. 

We have been speaking of a rare exception — of the life of 
a woman full of works, and doubly full — a saint and founder 
of a religious order, who had, before, filled the station of a wife, 
the mother of a family, and wise mistress of a household. The 
biographies of Madame de Chantal remark upon it as a singu- 
lar circumstance, that she had, as wife and widow, herself 
managed her household, governed her dependents, and ma- 
naged the fortune of her husband, her father, and her children. 

This was, indeed, a rare circumstance at the time the bio- 
graphies were written. The family tasks and domestic cares 
which we find throughout the sixteenth century, particularly 
in the houses of burgesses and citizens, was lost in the seven- 
teenth, when every body wished to live in the style of nobles. 
Idleness became a fashion of the epoch from its circum- 
stances. All society was inactive on the morrow after the 
religious wars ; all local action had ceased, and the central life 
of courts had hardly commenced. The nobility had finished 
their adventures, and the sword was hanged against the wall. 
The citizens had no more emeutes, conspiracies, armed pro- 
cessions, nothing, in short, to do. The ennui of this inactivity 
of the times weighed most heavily upon woman. She found 
herself unoccupied and isolated. In the sixteenth century she 
\vas in communication with man by the great questions which 
were debated even in the family circle — by common perils, 
fears and hopes. In the seventeenth there was nothing of all 
this. 



DIVIDE AND CONQUER. 37 

Add to the absence of these mutual emotions another great 
difficulty — and one, we may remark, from which there is grave 
and increasing danger in the times in which we live. It is, that 
in every profession the spirit of particularity and detail, which 
more and more absorbs man, has the effect of isolating him in 
the family, and of rendering him, in some sort, mute toward 
his wife and household. He can no more communicate to 
them his daily thoughts — they could comprehend nothing of 
the minute difficulties and technical problems which fill his 
mind. 

But the woman had, at least, her children to console her } 
No ! In the period of which w^e write, the house, silent 
and empty, resounded no more with the noise of the children. 
Education at home became the exception to the general rule — 
it gave way daily more and more to the system of education 
in institutions. The son was educated by the Jesuits, the 
daughter by the Ursulines, or some other religious order. The 
mother remained alone. The separation of the residence of 
the mother and child is an immense evil, which contains the 
germs of a thousand ills, in the family and in society. I shall 
return to this subject in another place. 

And the mother and her children were not only separated, 
but by the influence of m.odes of life completely different, they 
became opposite in mind, and less and less capable of under- 
standing each other — the son a little savant in A/c, hcBc^ hocj 
the mother ignorant and worldly. There was no longer a 
common language between them. 

The family thus separated was the more open to the opera- 
tion of influences from without. The mother and child, once 
separated, are the more easy to secure, and it is simply neces- 
sary to employ different means. The son is subdued and 
broken by the burthen of his tasks and studies. He must 
write, write, write, copy, copy, translate, imitate. The mo- 
ther on the other hand, falls into the power of these intri- 
guers by the dreary wearisomcness of vacuity and ennui. Tiie 

4 



38 LOVER OR CONFESSOR ? 

lady is alone in the chateau — her lord is at the chase, or at 
court. Monsieur, the President, goes daily to the hall in the 
morning, and returns in the evening — Madame, his wife, is 
alone in her melancholy hotel in the country, or in a gloomy 
great mansion in a dark little street in the city. 

The lady in the sixteenth century, soothed her solitude by 
song— often by poetry. In the seventeenth, worldly songs 
"were forbidden ; and as for religious chants, they w^ere still 
more out of the question. What! sing psalms! That were 
at once to declare one's-self a protestant. What remained for 
woman then } Nothing but gallant devotion — the conversa- 
tion of the director or of the lover. 

The sixteenth century, with its violent manners and fluctu- 
ating opinions, moved suddenly, by fits, from gallantry to de- 
votion — from Heaven to Satan. It alternated continually and 
hastily between pleasure and penitence. In the seventeenth, 
people were more ingenious. They could carry forward the 
two things at once — mingle the two languages— and speak 
love and devotion together. Could you be a silent listener to 
a conversation conducted under these beautiful rules, it would 
sometimes puzzle you to decide who spoke — whether the 
lover or the spiritual director. 

To understand the singular success of the latter, we must 
be careful to keep in mind the moral condition of the times. 
We mivst remember the unquiet and perplexed state of con- 
science in which the end of a period so stormy as that of the 
religious wars, found the world. In the gloomy idleness which 
commenced — in the vacancy of the present, the past came up 
more vividly, and its memories were of the more frequent re- 
currence. With many minds — with the feeble and agitated 
souls of women more especially, awoke the terrible question 
of safety or perdition. 

All the success of the Jesuits — the confidence reposed in 
them by the noble and by the women, had its foundation in 



JUSTICE AND PREDESTINATION. 39 

the adroit reply which they contrived to this question. A few 
words then upon it is indispensable. 

'' What can save us?" The theologian on the one side, and 
the jurist or the philosopher on the other made opposite re- 
sponses. The theologian^ if he was truly such, as represent- 
ing the largest part of Christendom, replied : " It is the grace 
of our Lord which takes the place of justice, and saves whom 
he will. Some are predestined to salvation — the larger number 
to condemnation.* 

The jurists on the other hand answered, that we are punish- 
ed or recompensed according to the good or bad exercise of 
our own free will. We are dealt with according to our works, 
in conformity with justice. 

Such is the interminable case between the jurist and the 
theologian — justice and predestination. Let one figure to him- 
self a mountain with two sides, and the crest straight and 
sharp — the edge of a razor. On the one side is predestination, 
which condemns — on the other justice, which strikes, and on 
the summit, between these two terrors, is miserable man, with 
one foot on the one side, and the other on the opposite, ever 
ready to slip and fall. 

And when could the fear of falling be greater, than after the 
great crimes of the sixteenth century; when man had found 
the weight of his sins so unwieldy that he could not keep his 
equilibrium ? The fright and despair of Charles IX. after the 
massacre of St. Bartholomew are well known. He died — for 
the lack of a Jesuit confessor. John III. of Sweden, who kill- 
ed his brother, did not die of remorse. His wife took care to 
bring to him the good Father Possevino, who whitewashed, 
and made him catholic. 



* This was in different degrees the common reply of the defenders of 
the doctrine of grace, protestants, Jansenists, Thomists, etc. Put in con- 
trast with these all the shades of the other party — the jurists of antiquity 
and the middle nprrm, the rcla^jian and Semi- Pelagian heretics, and tho 
modern philosophers. 



40 THE ONE GOOD WORK. 

The means which the Jesuits employ to tranquillize con- 
sciences, surprise one very much, at the first glance.* They 
adopt — with address and management it is true, but they still 
adopt the principle of the jurists, to wit: That man is saved 
or lost by his icorks — hy the exercise ichich he makes of his free 
will. 

This seems a liberal but severe doctrine. You are free, and 
therefore responsible and punishable. If you sin, you must 
atone for it. The jurist, who never jests, would visit a serious 
punishment upon the person of the culprit. " Off with his 
head ! The law will cure with the axe the malady of iniquity.'' 

But it is necessary that we go back and look up the Jesuit, 
whom we lost sight of in that last step.f Expiation, by the 
Jesuit's code has nothing in it terrible. He will frequently 
prove forthwith, that there is nothing to expiate. The fault, 
properly explained, will become a merit, or at the worst, if 
the fault remain, it may be ^vashed away by good works, the 
test of w^hich is, the penitent's devoting himself to the Jesuits, 
the ultramontane interest. 

Do you perceive how much of exceeding cleverness there 
is in the tactics of the Jesuits ? The doctrine of freedom of 
will, and of justice, which in the middle ages was denounced 
against the jurists as pagan and irreconcilable with Christi- 
anity, is adopted by the Jesuits. They put themselves for- 
ward as the friends and champions of the freedom of the will. 

But this doctrine of free wull, and of justice according to 
works, puts the sinner in a very embarrassing position. The 
Jesuit comes in at the point when he needs solace. He charges 
himself with the direction of this troublesome liberty, and re- 
duces works to the capital good work of serving Rome. In 

* It is the eclectic effort of Molina. Vide Concordia. 

t Though the jurist and Jesuit hold analagous theories, they differ in 
practice. The jurist demands punishment — the Jesuit suppresses it by 
penitence. See the true decoy— Me little jish thrown to catch a greater^ ac- 
cording to the expressive emblem : Imago primi sceciili Societatis Jesu. 



MUTUAL SURRENDERS. 41 

this manner the liberty of the will, theoretically professed, is 
turned, in practice, to the support of the power of the Jesuits. 

There is here a double falsehood. These people, who style 
themselves Jesuits — men of Jesus — teach that man is saved 
less by Jesus than by himself — his own freedom of will. 
These then, are the philosophers — the friends of liberty ! On 
the contrary, they are the most cruel enemies of liberty and 
of philosophy. That is to say, with the words "free will," 
they juggle away the name of the Saviour, only to conceal 
with his name, again, the liberty which they had just put for- 
ward. 

The matter is thus simplified from the two opposite parties, 
into a sort of tacit bargain between Rome, the Jesuits, and the 
world. 

Rome surrendered Christianity — in the principle which lies 
at the foundation of it — salvation by Christ. Placed in a po- 
sition to choose between that doctrine and its opposite, she 
had not courage to decide.* 

After Christianity, the Jesuits surrendered morality — re- 
ducing the moral merits by which man works out his salva- 
tion to a single one — the political merit, of which we have 
before spoken — that of service to Rome. 

And in return, what does the world surrender ? 

Woman, the part of the world eminently worldly, surren- 
ders her family and her fire-side — her most precious posses- 
sions. Eve still betrays Adam ; the woman betrays man, her 
husband, her son ! Thus each sells her deity. — Rome sells 
Christianity, woman her domestic religion. 

The feeble souls of women, incurably spoiled by the great 
corruption of the sixteenth century, — full of passions and of 
fear, and of bad desires crossed by remorse — eagerly seized 
this means of sinning with a quiet conscience, and of expiation 
without amendment, amelioration, or return towards God. 

♦ Tbe Jesuits obtained a decree of silence upon both parties — Rome di- 
rected Molina and St. Thomas to hold their peace. 

4# 



42 A MANAGING DAUGHTER. 

They were happy to receive at the confessional a political or- 
der, or the direction of an intrigue as works of penitence. 
They carried into this singular mode of expiation, the vio- 
lence of the same guilty passions which they were labouring 
to expiate ; and, to atone for remaining in sin, were often guilty 
of crimes.* 

The female mind, inconstant in all things else, was in this 
sustained by the manly firmness of the mysterious hand which 
was concealed behind her. Under this hidden guidance wo- 
man, at once gentle and strong, impetuous and persevering, 
immoveable as iron, and melting like fire, compelled at length 
the surrender of character, and even interest. 

Some examples may assist us to understand this. In France 
the aged Les Diguieres had a great political interest in remain- 
ing a protestant, inasmuch as he was the chief of his party. 
King, rather than governor of Dauphiny, he gave assistance to 
the Swiss, and protected the Vaudois population against the 
house of Savoy. But the daughter of Les Diguieres was gain- 
ed over by Father Cotton. She managed her father skilfully 
and patiently, and succeeded in inducing him to abandon his 
powerful position for an empty compliment, and to change his 
religion for the title of constable. 

In Germany the interest and the mild character of the em- 
peror, Ferdinand 1., induced him to pursue a moderate policy, 
and not to submit himself to his nephew, Philip II. In vio- 
lence and fanaticism he could only have taken a second place. 
But the daughter of the emperor managed so effectively that the 
house of Austria was united by marriage with those of Lorraine 
and of Bavaria. The children of those two houses were edu- 
cated by the Jesuits,| and in Germany the Jesuits thus renewed 

* See, in Leger, the vast system of espionage, of intrigue, and of secret 
persecution, which ladies of high rank in Piedmont and France organized 
under the direction of the Jesuits. 

t Vide Ranke, History of the Popes ; Dorigny Life of P. Canisius, and 
above all, P. P. Wolf, Geschickte Maximilians, 



PAPAL AUTOMATA. 43 

the broken thiead of the destiny of the Guises. These pupils 
of the order ^ere better for the purposes of their masters than 
the Guises — they were blind instruments in the hands of their 
teachers ; labourers in diplomacy, and in war — skillful most 
certainly, but still mere labourers. I speak of the next stern 
and bigoted generation : of Ferdinand II. of Austria, Tilly, 
Maximilian of Bavaria, those conscientious performers of the 
great works of Rome, who, under the direction of their Jesuit 
masters, conducted so long, in Europe, a war barbarous and 
skilful — merciless and methodical. The Jesuits both prompted 
and overlooked them. Over the ruins of cities in ashes — over 
fields covered with the dead, the mule of the Jesuit ambled at the 
side of the charger of the conqueror in thirty-six battles — the 
bloody victor of Magdeburg — the monk in military command, 
John Tzerklas, count of Tilly. 

The horror of that villainous war, the basest that ever was 
waged, is that a free purpose, or a spontaneous act among those 
who waged it, scarcely appears in its history. From its com- 
mencement it was artificial and mechanical* like a combat of 
machines or of phantoms. These strange beings, created only 
to fight their way, marched without mercy, and with no pur- 
pose of their own. What understanding could be had with 
them ? By what word could they be addressed ? What con- 
sideration could soften them to humanity ? In the religious 
wars of France, and in that of the revolution, the warriors 
were men. "Each died for his opinion — his idea — and falling 
on the field of battle wrapped his failh about him as he com- 
posed himself to die. But the soldiers of the thirty years war 
had no personal identity — no thought of their own — their very 
breath was that of the evil genius who pushed them on. These 
automata — however blind — were not the less bloody. No 
historian would be able to comprehend this atrocious pheno- 



♦ Excepting, always, the electrical moment of Gustavus Adolphus. 



44 THE MAN-MACHINE. 

menon, if there remained not some image of it i» the accursed 
pictures of that hireling, Salvator.* 

Such, then, were the fruits of the mildness, benignity, and 
fatherly love of the Jesuits. Having novr, through indulgence 
and connivance exterminated morality — having entrapped the 
family, fascinated the mother, and conquered the child— -having 
by Satanic art educated the man-machine^ they discovered that 
they had created a monster, whose one idea, whole life, 
thought, action, was murder^ and nothing else. 

Wise politicians — amiable men — worthy . fathers — who, 
with so much wisdom, arranged from afar the thirty years 
war :| fascinating Aquiviva, wise Canisius, good Posserino, 
friend of St. Francis, who does not admire the versatility of 
your intellect ? Even while organizing the terrible intrigue 
of that long St. Bartholomew, you discussed with the good St. 
Francis the differences it is necessary to observe between 
" those who die in love^ and those who die of love^ 

From these gentle theories to those atrocious results, what 
was the path ? How did minds, enervated by gallant devotion 
and devout gallantry, spoiled by the daily indulgences of an 
obliging casuistry, permit themselves to be led, asleep, into the 
current of politics .^J The answer to this question would in- 

* The expression is harsh, and it pains me that T must employ it. If this 
great artist painted war so cruel, it is doubtless because he had more sen- 
sibility than his contemporaries to the horrors of this terrible epoch. 

t See, particularly in Ranke, how Aquaviva corrupted the mind of the 
young Maximilian of Bavaria, who was to play so great a part in that war. 

t Can the astonishing success which, at the very outset, they met in this 
great enterprise, be explained by attributing genius to the Jesuits? I 
think not. The spirit of intrigue — a certain diplomatic cunning, patient 
and tricky — is tJiis genius ? The celebrated Jesuits of this time, those 
who had most success and efficiency, were, (if we judge them by what 
works of theirs are extant) insipid writers, stupid pedants, or grotesque 
■wits. M. Ranke, with his benevolent impartiahty, while enumerating the 
heroes of both parties in the great combat of the human mind, wished to 
find a great name to set against Shakspeare. He sought and found — Jacob 
Balde, 



A VERSATILE INSTRUMENT. 45 

volve a long history. It would require one to bury himself 
in all the dust of a nauseating literature. Who could do this 
without heart-sickness ? 

All prepared, as the world undoubtedly was, by bad manners 
and bad taste for the heavy productions with which the Jesuits 
inundated it, the insipid and washy flood would have passed 
away without leaving any traces, if there had not been mingled 
with it something of the amiable original who enchanted all 
hearts. The charm of St. Francis of Sales, his beautiful spirit- 
ual union with Madame de Chantal, the holy and sweet fascina- 
tion which he possessed over women and children, all helped the 
great religious intrigue in an indirect but very efficacious manner. 

With their light morality, and absolution abating even that, 
the Jesuits could easily corrupt consciences, but not remove 
all fears. They could play more or less cleverly upon the 
rich instrument which their institution allowed them — false- 
hood. They could play science, art, literature, theology ; but 
could they with all these false touches, sound one true tone? 
No! 

The tone exact and sweet was precisely what St. Francis gave 
them. They had only to follow him to make their false tones seem 
a little less discordant. The amiable features of his works, 
their pretty faults, were adroitly copied. That taste for lowli- 
ness and humility, which made him regard with preference the 
lesser things of creation — little children, little birds, little lambs 
and bees — authorized among the Jesuits trifles, petty exactness, 
and shallowness of style, and little weaknesses of the heart. The 
innocent freedoms of an angel, pure as the light, who always 
exhibited the Deity in his gentler revelation — in woman, in 
the nursing babe, in the Divine mysteries of love — these em- 
boldened his imitators in the most scandalous equivoques ; and 
made them advance so far in this doubtful path, that tlio line 
became insensible between gallantry and devotion — between 
the lover and tlie spiritual fatlier. 

The friend of St. Francis, the good bishop Camus, with all 



46 PIOUS ROMANCES. 

his little romances, ranch aided this result. He has only pious 
shepherdesses, a devout Astrea, an ecclesiastical Arayntus.* 
Conversion sanctifies all, 1 know, in a romance. The lovers 
always land at last in the convent or the seminary ; but they 
travelled by so long a circuit, that it made them doze by the 
way. 

The taste for romanticf and insipid, of the benign and father- 
ly description was thus easily spread by the perversion of com- 
paratively good examples. The innocent are found to have 
laboured for the artful. A St. Francis and a Camus opened the 
way for Father Douillet. 

The essential policy of the Jesuits was to weaken and di- 
minish ; to render the mind feeble and false ; to make the little 
very little, and reduce the simple into idiots. The soul fed 
with trifles, and amused with baubles, would become easy to 
direct. The emblems, conceits, and moral quibbles, with 
which the Jesuits amused themselves, were very suitable to 
their policy. Among the nonsensical emblems there was one 
in particular which few foolish books could rival — the '^ Imago 
jpriml scECull societatis Jesu?"^ 

All these little follies succeeded to a marvel among the in- 
dolent and listless women, whose minds had been enervated for 
a long period, by gallantry without ideas. To please such in 
all limes two things are necessary : first to amuse them, and 
partake of their taste for the small, the romantic and the false ; 

* In his Alexis, Camus excuses himself for writing such works. He 
wrote ihera to push aside worldly romances. He has " done as does the 
nurse, who takes medicine for the benefit of the child.** The exemplar 
of the hbrary of the arsenal is curious for his manuscript notes. 

t As for the taste for the romantic, that would appear not to have be- 
come extinct now. The last editor of the "Works of St. Francis, wished 
to have, to write the History of the Saint and of Madame de Chantal, * * the 
pen which tracked the death of Atala, and the chaste amours of Cymodo- 
ceus." — Vol. I., p. 243, of the edition dedicated to Monseigneur the arch- 
bishop of Paris. The very ideal of folly of this description is the Life of 
the Virgin, by the Abbe Orsini. 



CONFESSORS IN THE MARKET. 47 

and, second, to flatter them, and indulge them in their feeble- 
ness ; to encourage them to make themselves more feeble and 
effeminate — more feminine than they are. 

Such is the universal mode of corrupting woman. How 
does the lover supplant the husband ? It is usually less by 
passion than by assiduity and complaisance, by flattering the 
imagination. The director employed no other means : he be- 
guiled by flattery, with the more success, because, from his 
character and cloth, some austerity might be expected. But 
what prevents that one director should flatter more than an- 
other ? We have just now seen a highly respectable example 
of spiritual infidelity.* From one confessor to another and 
another, each more complaisant than the last, we run some 
risk of falling to quite a depth. To get the better of confes- 
sors so accommodating, an entirely new degree of tenderness 
and laxity becomes necessary. The last comer, unable other- 
wise to exceed his predecessors, actually turns the tables. He 
who was the judge of the tribunal of penitence, becomes the 
suppliant. Justice makes an apology to the sinner — God is 
humbled before him !| 

The Jesuits, who by these means shone so much as direc- 
tors, themselves render the testimony that in this kind of con- 
test they had no person to fear. In kind indulgence, in dis- 
guised connivance, in subtilty to betray and misrepresent the 
Deity, they knew perfectly well that no one could compete 
with a Jesuit director. Father Cotton had so little fear that 

* See, upon this subject, the singular simphcity of the Jesuit Fichct, 
who speaks in his biography with contempt of the first director or confos- 
Bor of Madame Chantal, who wns too jealous of her. lie even goes so far 
as to call him *' This swain,'"' &c. — [Notehy Translator. — The reader will 
find this passage a key to the mode in which St. Francis supplanted his 
predecessor, with Madame Chantal, in chapter II. '* Spiritual infidelity'* 
means betrayal of confidence between the confessor and his peiutent, and 
in the very peculiar description which our author gives of the relation be- 
tween the two, it gives rise to *' spiritual jealousy." 

t In the French — " Vicu se mctlc a gcnoux /" 



48 CASUISTRY. 

his penitents would desert him, that, on the contrary'', he 
sometimes counselled them to go to other confessors. " Go ! 
Go !" he would say ; " Try some one else, and you will, with- 
out a doubt, come back to me again !" 

Let one imagine to himself this general emulation between 
confessors, directors, and consulting casuists, to justify every 
body, and to find continually some adroit means to go farther 
in indulgence, and to make some new case innocent which 
had before been deemed culpable. The result of that war 
against sin, pushed to emulation by so many wise men, was 
that it disappeared gradually from human conduct. Guilt 
could find no place of refuge — and, under such a course of 
spiritual direction, it seemed as if one day there would be no 
more of it left in the world. 

That great work, Pascal's Provincial Letters, with all its 
felicity of method, leaves us still something to regret. In 
giving its concordance of the casuists, it presents them in 
some sort as in the same line — as contemporaries. It would 
have been well, on the contrary, to have affixed dates ; to 
have rendered to each according to his merit in the progres- 
sive development of casuistry, and to have shown how they 
went on perfecting the science; outbidding and surpassing 
each other, excelling and eclipsing themselves. 

In so eager a competition, it was highly indispensable to 
make great effort, and exercise continual ingenuity. The 
penitent, havnig his election of confessors, became difficult to 
please. Each successive day absolution could be had at a 
better market, and the confessor who knew not how to abate, 
lost his practice. It was the business of the clever priest to 
discover, in present concessions, how much more could yet 
be conceded. A beautifully elastic and accommodating science 
was this casuistry. In the place of imposing rules, it propor- 
tioned itself to the occasion ; becoming narrow or large as it 
took measure of the exigency. Each step of progress was 



MALARIA. 49 

carefully noted, and served as a point of. departure for a still 
further extension. 

In a country once become subject to fever, disease engenders 
disease. The sickly inhabitants neglecting all precautions, 
lilth accumulates on filth, waters spread over the low grounds, 
miasma thickens the air — an atmosphere, sluggish, noxious, 
and heavy, oppresses the country. The people drag them- 
selves along almost inanimate, or lounge and doze continually. 
Speak not to them of making any attempt to improve their 
condition. They are habituated to the malady, and have been 
from their birth, and so were their fathers before them. Why 
talk of remedies ? The state of the country is that in which 
it has been from time immemorial. It would be almost a pity, 
according to their opinion, to change it. 



(50) 



CHAPTER IV. 

Convents. — Quarter of the Convents. — Convents of the Seventeenth Century. 
— Contrast of the Middle j^ges. — The Director. — Disputes to obtain the 
Direction of Religious Orders. — The Jesuits conquer by Calumny. 

A NAIVE and witty German lady related to me a little ad- 
venture which befel her when she had just arrived at Paris for 
the first time. She wandered with her husband for a long 
time in a large and gloomy quarter of the city, where they 
made an infinity of turns and circuits before they were able 
to find their way out. Entering at first a public garden, they 
at length found another which led them to the quay. I per- 
ceived that she was speaking of the learned and pious quarter, 
extending from the Luxembourg to the Jardin des Plantes, 
which contains so many convents and colleges. 

" I saw," said this lady, " entire streets of gardens, surround- 
ed with high walls, which recalled the deserted quarters of 
Rome, in the season of the malaria ; but with this difference, 
that these were not deserted, but mysteriously inhabited, close, 
jealous, and inhospitable. Other very gloomy streets seemed, 
as it were, buried between two rows of tall gray mansions, 
w^hich did not look upon the street, but, as if in mockery, had 
walled up apertures for windows, or jalousies closed or re- 
versed, which seemed windows, and still were not. We in- 
quired our way many times, and were often told, but I know 
not how, after going up and down, and up again, w^e were still 
at the same point ; our weariness and fatigue increasing. We 
found continually, as if by invincible fate, the same gloomy 
streets, and the same sombre houses sullenly closed, which 
seemed to lower at us with a suspicious eye. Worn out at 
at length, and seeing no end or outlet, weighed down more 



FORMAL ARCHITECTURE. 51 

and more by, I know not what ennui, which the very walls 
seemed to breathe, I sat down upon a stone and wept." 

The mind is enfeebled, wearied, and the heart sickened by 
merely looking at these ungracious buildings ; the most cheer- 
ful of which are the hospitals. Built, for the most part, or re- 
built in the seventeenth century, during the solemn dullness of 
the times of Louis XII. and XIV., they have nothing about them 
which recalls the gracious style of art of the Renaissance, the 
lost souvenir of which is the Florentine fa(^ade of the Luxem- 
bourg. All the buildings which were erected at a later date, (even 
those which affect a style of severe ornament, like the Sor- 
bonne,) have sometimes magnitude, but never grandeur. With 
their high pointed roofs, their formal and rigid lines, they have 
always the dry, dull, and monotonous air of the priest, or the 
old maid. In this indication they are far from falsifying their 
character or history ; having been, for the most part, built to 
shelter crowds of the daughters of the nobility and of citi- 
zens who lived like nobles — fathers who wished thus to dis- 
embarrass themselves. To make one son rich, they sent the 
daughters here to die sadly and decently. 
<► The monuments of the middle ages are melancholy, but not 
displeasing. One feels, in regarding them, the force of the sin- 
cerity of the sentiment which led to their erection. They are 
not monuments of officials, but the living works of the people, 
the children of the faith. But these, on the contrary, of which 
we now speak, are quite another thing — the creation of a 
class — the aristocratic class, which was increased in the seven- 
teenth century by the royal households, the antichamber, and 
the bureaux. They were almshouses, opened to the daugh- 
ters of those families. Their great number is calculated to 
mislead the observer as to the strength and extent of the reli- 
gious reaction of that period. Regard them attentively, and 
tell me if you see in them the least trace of tlie ancient ascet- 
ism. Are these buildings religious houses, or hospitals ? Are 
they asylums or colleges ^ There is nothing to indicate the 



52 CONVENT PARLOURS. 

answer. They are perfectly calculated for many civil purpo- 
ses. They have only one character well determined — that of 
sombre uniformity, decent mediocrity — ennui. It is ennui 
realised under an architectural form — palpable, tangible and 
visible. 

What endlessly multiplied these houses, was the circum- 
stance that, the austerities of the ancient rules being very much 
softened in them, parents had less hesitation in compelling 
their daughters to take the veil. It was no more burying them 
alive. The parlours were the saloons to which all the world 
flocked, under pretence of edification. The belles who 
came there to make confidants of the sisters, occupied their 
minds with intrigues and the bustling trickery of the world 
without, tormenting the recluses with vain regrets. With these 
worldly distractions, the interior of the convent was only the 
more gloomy. Life, with very little monastic austerity, and a 
few little acts of devotion to occupy the time, became an idle 
and wearisome void. 

The monastic life was, in the middle ages, something more 
serious. Then the convent had both more death and more 
life. The system was founded on two principles, both follow- % 
ed to the letter — the death of the body, and the vivification 
of the soul. Against the body they employed depressing fasts, 
long vigils, and frequent bleeding. For the development of 
the mind, monks and nuns could read, transcribe,* and chant. 
Down to the eleventh century they comprehended the words 
that they chanted, the Latin difiering little from that of their 

* The rule of St. Cfesaire, and of others, directed nuns to copy manu- 
scripts. (See my Memoir on the Education of Women in the Middle Ages, 
at the end of the Introduction to Universal History, third edition.) Many 
of the beautiful miniatures which ornament them, painted by love, and with 
infinite patience, betray the hand of woman. Who could believe that it is 
now a crime for a nun to know how to design, or to collect flowers to paint ? 
We have learned the fact, with many other curious things respecting the 
interior of convents, by the revelations of Sister Marie Lemonnier — Me- 
moir e de Ilait re Tilliard, I8i5. Caen, 



THE DIRECTOR. 53 

ordinary conversation. The offices had then a dramatic cha- 
racter which sustained the attention, and kept it awake. Many 
passages, now reduced to simple words, were then expressed 
by gesture and pantomime. What they say now, they then 
acted* Even after they had given to their worship the serious, 
sombre, and wearisome character which it preserves to the 
present day, the religious orders had still an indemnification 
in pious reading — legends, the lives of the saints, and other 
books which they translated — as, for instance, the admirable 
French version of the Imitation of Christ.f All these conso- 
lations were withdrawn to the sixteenth century. It was 
feared they would become too studious. The chant, even, in 
the seventeenth, appeared suspicious to many of the confessors. 
They feared that the sisterhood had not sufficiently devoted 
themselves to be fit to sing the praises of God.f 

And how was all the lack replaced ? For the offices which 
they no longer understood — for the reading and the chanting 
which had been forbidden, for all these indulgences and occu- 
pations of which they had been successively deprived, what 
thing did they substitute ? 

A thing — or rather a man — in plain language, the director. 
This was something new, and little known in the middle ages, 
when they had only the confessor. 

Yes — it was a man who inherited all this great vacancy — it 
was his conversation and his precepts which were expected to 
fill it. Prayer and reading, if the latter was permitted, were per- 
formed entirely by him, or under his direction. God, whom 
they had sought in their reading, and by their sighs was hence* 
forth to be daily dispensed to them by this man — measured to 
them according to the measure of his heart. 

Many thoughts press upon us here — but they must be de- 
layed. We will listen to them presently; to entertain them 
now would break the thread of historical deduction. 

* Vide my Origines dii Droit. D' Martcne. Ve lutihuty ^c. 
t History of France, vol. v. \ Cliateaubriand, Vie de Band, 

5* 



54 BERULLE AND THE CARMELITES. 

In the commencement of the devout reaction of 1600, nuns 
were generally under the direction of monks of their own 
order. The Feuillantines were directed by the Feuillants ; the 
Carmelites by Carmelite friars ; the order of St. Elisabeth, by 
the order of Picpus. The Capuchin nuns were not only con- 
fessed and directed by Capuchins, but supported by them, out 
of the product of their collections.* 

The monks did not retain this exclusive possession. Dur- 
ing more than a quarter of a century, priests, and monks, the 
religious of all robes,! had, among themselves, an active war 
upon this subject. This mysterious kingdom of women, shut 
up and dependent, over which they might exercise an undivided 
dominion, formed not without reason, the common ambition 
of all. Such houses, although in appearance unaffected by the 
world, and strangers to it, are not the less, always great cen- 
tres of action. They conferred great power upon the orders 
which obtained possession of them, and w^ith individuals, 
priests, or friars, whether they admit it or not, it was an affair 
of the heart. 

What I say here, I say of the most pure and the most rigid, 
who are often the most susceptible. The honorable attach- 
ment of Cardinal .Berulle for the Carmelite nuns whom he had 
introduced into France, was known to all the world. He had 
them established near him, he went to them at all hours in the 
day, and even in the evening — the Jesuits said the night. It 
was near them, when sick, that he went to re-establish his 
health. When Paris was scourged by the plague, he said that 
he could not go to a distance " on account of his Carmelites." 

* Vide Heliot. For Paris, especially, see Felibren, who is very complete 
on this subject. 

t Men, high in authority, or in position, took portions of the vows of reli- 
gious orders — particularly that of the Jesuits. They still remained in the 
world, but were bound to support their order, were not forbidden to marry, 
&c. They were said to belong to *' the robe."_ Madame Chantal's fa- 
ther was one of these. — Trans* 



URSULINES. 55 

The Orders of the Oratory and of the Jesuits, natural enemies, 
made common cause of the enterprise of driving the Carmel- 
ite friars from the direction of the Carmeh'te sisterhood. When 
they had succeeded, they then commenced to quarrel between 
themselves. 

The austere sisterhood of the Carmelites, wliich obtained 
little extension among us, had, however, importance, as embo- 
dying the ideal of penitence and the poetry of the monastic 
life ; the enthusiastic spirit of St. Theresa dwelt still among 
them. It was into the bosom of this order that the subjects 
of sudden and violent conversions threw themselves ; here 
those came to die, who, like Madame de Valliere, too severely 
wounded in spirit, could find relief only in death. 

But the two great institutions of the era, those which repre- 
sented its spirit, and obtained an immense extension, were the 
orders of the Visitation, and the Ursulines. The first had, in 
the reign of Louis XIV. about five hundred monasteries, the 
second, three or four hundred. 

The Visitandines, as we have already said, were the most 
gentle of the orders. Inactively they waited the visit of the 
Divine Spouse. Their inactive life was well fitted to make them 
visionaries. The astonishing success of Maria Alacoque is 
well known, and how well it was turned to profit by the 
Jesuits. 

The Ursulines, more useful, devoted themselves to instruc- 
tion. The three hundred and fifty convents which they had 
in this age, educated, following the most moderate calculation, 
thirty-five thousand girls. What great political instrument is 
such a vast institution capable of being made, in able hands ! 

The Ursulines and Visitandines were under the charge of 
bishops who gave them confessors. St. Francis, good friend 
as he was of the Jesuits and of the orders in general, was a 
suspicious monster in their eyes in the matter which he had 
nearest at heart, the Order of the Visitation. '' Mcthinks" the 



56 JESUIT DISPENSATIONS. 

saint writes,* " that these good girls know not what they wish, 
if they would invite the supervision and direction of the reli- 
gious orders. In truth these orders are made up of excellent 
servants of God, but it is always a hard thing for the sister- 
hood to be governed by the orders, who have a custom of de- 
priving tliem of the holy liberty of the spirit?'^ 

It is only too easy to discern how servilely the female or- 
ders reproduced the spirit of the men who directed them. 
Those who were governed by the monks had a character of de- 
votion, bizarre, eccentric and violent; under the secular priests, 
oratorians, doctrinaires, there was a little reason, and a little 
narrow wisdom, mediocre, dry and sterile. 

The nuns who received bishops as their ordinary confessors 
chose themselves a confessor extraordinary, who did not fail 
to supplant the other and annul his influence. This extraor- 
dinary was generally found to be a Jesuit. The new orders 
of the Visitandines and Ursulines, created by priests who had 
endeavoured to drive the monks away from their direction, fell 
not the less under the influences of the Jesuits. The priests 
founded — the Jesuits profited by it. 

Nothing better served the purposes of the Jesuits than to 
say and repeat that the government of the female orders was a 
thing denied to them by their severe founder. Of monas- 
teries in general this was true, but of nunneries in particular, 
or their separate direction, it was false. The Jesuits did not 
govern the institutions collectively, they directed the sisters 
one by one. 

The Jesuit had not the daily weariness of detail, the manage- 
ment of the spiritual household, and the small trash of little 
sins. He did not fatigue himself with stated duties, but came 
in upon occasion. He was, above all, useful in giving the nuns 
dispensation from telling their confessors what they wished to 

* Works, VoL XL, p. 120, edition 1833. 



CALUMNIES. 57 

conceal, until, by little and little, the latter became a species 
of husband, held in small respect. 

If by chance the confessor possessed firmness of character 
and ability to exercise an influence, they laboured to expel 
him by the force of calumnies. One may judge of their au- 
dacity in this respect, when they feared not to attack a man 
so well established as Cardinal Berulle. One of his con- 
nexions among the Carmelite nuns, in a convent in which he 
had never set his foot, having become enciente, they boldly 
accused him of it. Finding that no person believed them, and 
that they gained nothing by attacking him on the score of 
morals, they set themselves about barking in concert against 
his books. There, they said, was concealed the poison of a 
dangerous mysticism. The Cardinal was too tender, too in- 
dulgent, too gentle, both as a theologian and as a director. 
Prodigious effrontery ! when all the world knew and saw what 
manner of directors the Jesuits were. 

This succeeded at length, if not against Berulle, at least 
against the Order of the Oratory, which was disgusted and 
frightened from the direction of nunneries, and finally desisted 
from it. This is a remarkable example of the all-powerful 
strength of calumny, when it is organized on a grand scale, 
by a body pushing together, and saying and repeating it in 
chorus. A chorus of thirty thousand men, repeating daily the 
same things throughout the whole Christian world — what 
could resist it? It was the refinement of Jesuitical art, and 
they have been incomparable at it. It might have been said 
in reference to them, almost from their origin, as Virgil ad- 
dresses his Roman in the well-known passage : Excudent alii 
spirantia mollius (Era — " Others animate brass, and give life 
to marble, they excel in other arts. Thou, Jesuit, let us re- 
member, thy art is calumny !" 



(58) 



CHAPTER V. 

Reaction of Morals. — drnaiid^ 1643. — Pascal, 1657. — Disgrace of the 
Older of the Jesuits. — How they re-established themselves with the King 
and the Pope, and put their Etiemies to Silence. — Biscouragement of the 
Jesuits. — Their Corruption. — TJiey Protect the first Quietists. — Immo- 
rality of Quietism. — Desjiiarets of St. Sorlin. — Morin burned, 1663. 

Morality was diseased — but not dead. Wasted by the 
casuists, by Jesuitism, and by the intrigues of the clergy, it 
was saved by the seculars. Such was the change which this 
point presents. The priesthood, even the better members of 
it, like the cardinal BeruUe, plunged mto the world and into 
politics. The illustrious laymen, Descartes, Poussin, retired 
into solitude. Philosophers became monks, and saints men 
of business. 

Each could have what he wished in that age. The priests 
desired power, and succeeded in obtaining the expulsion of 
the Protestants, the proscription of the Jansenists, the submis- 
sion of the Gallicans to the Pope. The secular would have 
science, Descartes and Galileo gave it impulse, Leibnitz and 
Newton, harmony. The church prevailed in temporal mat- 
ters, the laity obtained power over the mind. 

From the solitude where our great lay monks had taken 
refuge, comes a breath more pure. As it is felt, a new era 
commences, the modern — the era of labour, after that of dis- 
putes. No more dreams — no more school-divinity ! it was 
necessary to set seriously and early to work — before the day. 
There might have seemed a little dullness — but no matter — it 
was the vivifying freshness of the dawn — as in the fine nights 
of the North, where a queen of twenty went to Descartes, at 
"our in the morning, to learn the application of Geometry and 
Algebra. 



THE THUNDERBOLT. 59 

The elevated and serious spirit which renewed philosophy 
and modified literature, could not be without its influence on 
theology. It found a point of support, small, at first, and 
almost imperceptible, in the re-union of friends at Port Royal. 
It gave dignity to that brotherhood. Morality there had her 
claims admitted — Religion again became herself. 

Every thing prospered with the Jesuits. The confessors of 
kings, nobles, and courtly ladies, they found their convenient 
system of morality every where flourishing, when, in that serene 
sky, the thunder-cloud burst and the bolt fell. I speak of 
Arnaud's book — so entirely unexpected, so overwhelming — 
The Frequent Communion^ 1643. 

Not the Jesuits and Jesuitism alone, but every thing which 
enervated religion by a soft indulgence, felt the blow. Chris- 
tianity re-appeared, austere and grave. The world looked 
with astonishment upon the pale countenance of the Cruci- 
fied. He returned to say, in the name of grace, what natural 
reason alike says — that there is no real expiation without re- 
pentance. Before this severe truth, what becomes of all the little 
arts of evasion ? What becomes of worldly devotions and 
romantic piety — all the Philotheas, Erotheas, and their imita- 
tions } Contrast made them appear disgusting — odious. 

Others have said, and will say all this much better. I write 
not the history of Jansenism. The theological question is 
now superannuated. The moral question still exists, and his- 
tory owes it a word ; it cannot remain impartial between 
honest and dishonest people. Whether the Jansenist party 
may have exaggerated the doctrine of Grace or not, we must 
call that party, as it deserves to be considered in that deep 
struggle, tlie virtuous party. 

Although Arnaud and Pascal may have gone too far against 
their adversaries, it would be easy to show that thoy stopped 
on this side of their object ; lliey were unwilling to use all their 
arms ; they dreaded, in attacking the Jesuitical direction on 



60 CONVENIENT FURNITURE. 

certain delicate points, to injure the direction and confession 
generally. 

The Jesuit Ferrier even owns that after the terrible blow of 
the Provincial Letters, the Jesuits were crushed, that they fell 
into derision and contempt. A crowd of bishops condemned, 
not one defended them. 

One of the means that they employed to plaster over their 
difficulty was, to say boldly that the opinions they were 
reproached with, were not those of the . society, but of some 
individuals. They were answered that all their books being 
examined by the General of the order, thus belonged to the 
entire society. No matter ; to deceive the simple, they caused 
some of the Jesuits to write against their own doctrine. A 
Spanish Jesuit wrote against ultramontanism — another. Fa- 
ther Gonzales, made a book against the casuists. The latter 
was very serviceable. Wheuy finally, Rome was ashamed of 
their doctrine, and disavowed them, they put Gonzales for- 
ward, printed his book, and begged him to be their General. 
Even now, it is this book, this name, that they oppose to us. 
Thus they have an answer to all. Do you love indulgence, 
take Escobar ; if you prefer severity take Gonzales. 

Let us see what resulted from the universal contempt into 
which they fell after the publication of the Provincial Letters. 
The public conscience having been so thoroughly alarmed, 
every body, probably, avoided their confessional, and deserted 
their colleges. Think you so ? You deceive yourself. 

They were too necessary to the corruption of the times. 
But for the Jesuits, how could the king continue his devotions 
while notorious for his double adultery throughout Europe? 
Fathers Ferrier, Canard,* and La Chaise remained in place to 
the end, like pieces of furniture, too convenient to be parted 
with. 

But did not Rome feel how much she was compromised by 

* He called himself by his Latin name, Annat, 



TWO NEW STAGES TO BABEL. 61 

such auxiliaries. Was there not an urgent desire on her part 
to separate herself? The velleity was not wanting perhaps;* 
such a faint disposition was shown by the pope's condemning 
the apology which the Jesuits had ventured to make for the 
casuists. But all the energy of Rome was exhausted at this 
point ; or, if any remained, it was directed against the enemies 
of the Jesuits. The Order of Jesus prevailed over their adver- 
saries. As they had procured, in the commencement of the 
century, the imposition of silence upon the doctrine of Grace, 
defended by the Dominicans, so now again in the middle, they 
procured a similar command when the doctrine of Grace be- 
gan to be heard through the Jansenists. 

For this silence, twice imposed at their bidding, the Jesuits 
recompensed Rome by carrying still higher the doctrine of the 
papal infallibility. Upon this tottering Babel they dared still 
to build, and elevated it two stages. First, through the con- 
troversial works of the Jesuit Bellarmin, they stated and de- 
fended the dogma of the infallibility of the pope as a matter 
of faith. Secondly, the danger having become imminent, they 
ventured upon a step foolish and bold, though it gained them 
Rome. This was to cause the pope to do in his decrepitude 
what he had never dared to do in his power — to claim infalli- 
bility for himself in questions of fact. 

And this was done, too, at a moment when Rome was com- 
pelled to acknowledge that she had erred upon the greatest 
facts of nature and of history. To say nothing of the new 
world, the existence of which she had denied, but could not 
very well avoid admitting, she first condemned Galileo, then 
submitted to his theory, adopted and taught it. The penance 
which she compelled him to do one day before her, she her- 



♦ '* The wishing of a thing is not properly the willing of it ; but it is that 
which is called by the schools an imperfect velleity, and imports no mora 
than an idle, inoperative complacency in, and desire of, the end, without any 
consideration of the means." — South. 

6 



62 DOUBTFUL INFALLIBILITY. 

self was compelled to do before him, two hundred years after- 
ward.* 

There is still another fact, in one sense more serious than 
those we have cited. 7'he fundamental right of the popes, 
their title to power, the famous decretals, which they cited and 
defended so long as the critic, not having yet the aid of the 
printing press, could not expose them — those very decretals 
the pope has been obliged to confess, are a falsehood and a 
forgery !| 

What ! After the papacy has lied upon the fundamental fact 
of the foundation on which it rests its right, and has recanted 
and confessed the falsehood, then the Jesuits claim for it infal- 
libility in questions of fad! 

The Jesuits have been the tempters and corrupters of popes 
as well as of kings. Kings they betrayed by their concupi- 
scence, popes through their pride. 

What a ridiculous, yet affecting spectacle was it to see that 
poor little Janscnist party, then so great in genius and cou- 
rage,J persist in making an appeal to the justice of Rome- 
kneeling to a judge sold to their enemies !§ 

* The Jesuits will answer that these are sciences of matter, and that 
they are spiritual men. To which I answer, that he who cannot decide 
upon the natural, has no right to distinguish it from the supernatural, or to 
decide between them. 

t By the organ of the two cardinals and hbrarians of the Vatican, Bellar- 
min and Baronius, one of whom was confessor to the pope. 

+ Who can see without emotion, the tragic portrait of one of the Arnauds 
at the Louvre ? That white face so pure, so austere, that transparent lamp 
of alabaster, where radiates the internal flame, the light of mercy — the fire 
also of the combat ! But how can we blame them for that, persecuted as 
they were, surrendered to those whom every body despised ? Virtue and 
genius oppressed by cunning ! I never go to the museum without also 
looking at the touching painting of the young nun of Port Royal, saved 
by a prayer. Ah! these girls were saints, it must be said, whether or not 
we love their spirit of resistance ; saints and more. They were, under the 
forms of that time, the real defenders of liberty. 

^ Read, however, the immortal fifth letter of Nicole, (Imaginaires et 
Viswnaires, I. 140,) as eloquent as the Frcvinciales and still more bold. 



PROBABALISME. 63 

The Jesuits were not so blind that they did not see that the 
papacy, foolishly raised by them in theology, fell wretchedly 
in the political world. At the beginning of the century the 
pope was still powerful; he gave the whip to Henry IV. over 
the back of the cardinal D'Ossat. In the middle of the cen- 
tury, after all the great effort of the " thirty years war,'' the 
pope was not even consulted at the treaty of Westphalia. At 
the treaty of the Pyrenees, between Catholic Spain and most 
Christian France, they forgot that the pope was even in ex- 
istence. 

The Jesuits had undertaken the thing impossible ; and the 
principal means that they employed, the forestalling of future 
generations was not less impossible. Upon this had rested 
their greatest effort; they succeeded in getting into their hands 
the most of the children of the noble and wealthy families; 
they made of education a machine to cramp the head and de- 
press the mind. But such was the vigour of modern genius that, 
with the system the most happily combined to stifle invention, 
the first generation brought forth Descartes, the second, the au- 
thor of ^' The Hypocrite ^'''^ and the third, Voltaire. 

The worst was, that by the light of that great modern torch 
which they could not extinguish, they saw each other. They 
knew each other, and consequently began to despise each 
other. There is no person so hardened in falsehood, that he 
can entirely deceive himself. They had to confess to one an- 
other that their prohabilisme was, in reality, only the doubt 
and absence of all principle. They could not help discover- 
ing that they, the Christians par excellence^ the champions of 
the faith were only skeptics. Of what faith were they tlie 
champions ? It was certainly not the Christian faith ; their 
whole theology tended to nothing less than to ruin the basis 
upon which Christianity rests — Grace and gratuitous salva- 
tion by the blood of Christ. 

Wer6 they champions of a principle ? No — but agents of 



64 A GENTLE GENERAL. 

an enterprise — charged with an undertaking — an impossible 
undertaking — the restoration of papacy. 

Some Jesuits, but in small number, resolved to seek a resto- 
ration among themselves from their degradation. They frank- 
ly confessed the urgent necessity of reform in their society. 
Their general, a German, dared even to attempt this reform. 
Evil befel him for it ; the great majority of the Jesuits wished 
to maintain their abuses — and they stripped him of all autho- 
rity.=* 

These good workmen who had laboured so well to justify 
the pleasures of others wished also their share of enjoyment. 
They appropriated to themselves for a General, a man accord- 
ing to their own heart — amiable, mild and companionable — the , 
epicurean Oliva. Rome, lately governed by Madame Olympia, 
was in a moment of indulgence. Oliva retired to a delicious 
villa — made business to-morroio^ his motto — and left the society 
to govern itself in its own way. 

Some became merchants, bankers, woollen manufacturers, to 
the profit of their houses. Others following the pope's exam- 
ple more closely, worked for their nephews, and promoted the 
business of their families. Those who had wit, ran about the 
bye-streets coquetting and making madrigals. Others amused 
themselves with the gossipings of the nuns, the small talk of 
the women, and sensual curiosity. Their regents at last, to 
whom the world of woman was debarred, became too often 
mere Thyrsises and Corydons of the college. The consequence 
was a frightful prosecutionf in Germany, in which a large 
number of the proud and grave Germanic houses w^ere sullied. 

The Jesuits, sunk so low both for their theology and prac- 
tices, increased their party at hazard, with the most strange 
auxiliaries. Every one who declared himself an enemy of the 

* This episode in the history of the Jesuits, very much obscured by 
them, has been cleared up by Ranke, from the manuscripts. 

t Reprinted in 1843, but in a small number. M. Nodier gave me this 
rarity, very curious. I cannot now find it. 



DESMARETE. 65 

Jansenists became their friend. Here burst forth the immoral 
inconsistency of the society, its perfect indiflerence between 
systems. These people, who for more than half a century 
had contended for free-will, hastily allied themselves to the 
mystics who lost all liberty in God. Yesterday they were re- 
proached for following the principle of the pagan philosophers 
and jurisconsults, which gives every thing to justice, nothing 
to grace, to love ; and now they are receiving with kindness 
the growing Quietism — embracing the preacher of love, the vi- 
sionary Desmarets of St. Sorlin. 

It is true, Desmarets had rendered them some essential ser- 
vices. He succeeded in the dismembering of Port Royal, to 
gain some of the nuns. He greatly assisted in the destruction 
of poor'Morin, another visionary more original and more in- 
nocent, who believed himself to be the Holy SpiriL* He tells 
himself how, encouraged by father Canard, (Annat,) king's 
confessor, he obtained the confidence of this unfortunate, made 
him believe that he was his disciple, and drew from him some 
written proofs of his belief, by means of which he w^as burned, 
(1663.) 

The favour of the all-powerful confessor procured for the 
most extravagant books of Desmarets, the approbation of the 
archbishop of Paris. In them he declared himself a prophet, 
and that he was quite capable of creating, for the king and 
pope, an army of an hundred and forty-four thousand devoiiees^ 
chevaliers of papal infallibility, in order to exterminate, in con- 
cert with Spain, the Turks and the Jansenists. 

These devouees^ or victims of love, were people immolated, 

♦ A belief common to the middle ages. Morin was a man of the mid- 
dle ages, who appeared out of place in the seventeenth century. His 
*' Thoughts,^^ (1647,) contain many original and eloquent things; there aro 
among others, this beautiful verse, (p. 164) — *' Tiiou knowcst well that 
love changes in him that which he loves." Morin's hfe wsis innocent ; the 
decree (so cruel') accuses him of nothing with respect to manners. Des- 
marets ruined him because of jealousy ; he wished to prophesy on his own 
account, and was not contented to be the herald of another. 

6* 



66 DEVOUEES. 

annihilated in themselves, and existed no longer but in God. 
Hence, they could do no evil. " The soul," writes Desmarets, 
" having become a nullity, could not consent^ whatever it might 
do ; not having consented, it sinned not. It thinks not at all, 
neither of what it has done, or of what it has not done, for it 
has done nothing at all. God being every thing in us, does 
every thing, bears every thing. The devil can no longer find 
the creature, neither in itself, for it is a nothing, nor in its acts, 
for it acts no more. — By an entire dissolution of ourselves, the 
virtue of the Holy Ghost flows into us, and we become all 
God by a wonderful dei-formite. — If there still be troubles in 
the inferior part, the superior knows nothing of it ; but these 
two parts subtilized and rarefied, and by being changed into 
God ; the inferior, as well as the other. God then divells among 
the movements of sensuality^ which are all sanctified,'^''^ 

Desmarets, with the privilege of the king, and the approba- 
tion of the archbishop, did not withhold from printing this 
doctrine. Strong in the support of the Jesuits, he preached to 
the nuns, and frequented the convents. Belonging to the laity, 
as he did, he became a director of females. He told them of his 
dreams of devout gallantry, and made inquiries regarding their 
temptations of the flesh. A devoue so well annihilated^ seem- 
to have the power without danger, of writing the strangest 
things ; the following billet for example : — " I embrace you, 
luy dearest dove, in your nothingness, all nothing that I am, 
each of us being all in our All, through our amiable Jesus," Slc. 

What progress in a few years from the publication of the 
Provincial Letters ! What had become of the casuists } Simple 
people, who took one sin after another, and by a great effort 
effaced first this, and then that ! See in Quietism all swept out 
at a dash ! 

Casuistry was an art, which had its masters, its doctors, and 
its skillful men. But now, why any doctors } Every spiritual 

* Desmarets of St. Sorlin, Delights of the Mind, 29th day, page 470. 
See also his Spiritual Letters, 



THE SOVEREIGN EQUIVOQUE. 67 

man, every devout person, every Jesuit of the short rohe,* 
can, like him of the long, speak the sweet language of pious 
tenderness. — The Jesuits have fallen,but Jesuitism gains. The 
question is no longer to direct the attention each day for each 
case by a particular equivoque. Love, which mingles and 
confounds all is the sovereign equivoque, the sweetest, the most 
powerful. Put the will asleep, and there is no more intention ; 
the soul "losing its nothingness in its All," will gently allow 
itself to be annihilated on the bosom of love. 

* See note, p. 11. 



(68) 



CHAPTER VI. 

Continuation of moral Reaction. — Tartuffe^ 1664-1669. — Of real Hypocrites. 
Why Tartuffe is not yet a Quietist. 

The devotee caught in flagranti delicto by the worldling; 
the churchman excommunicated by the comedian. — This is 
the sense, the aim of the " Comedy of the Tartuffe.''* 

The great moral question put by Plato in his Athenian Tar- 
tuffe, (Euthyphron :) " Without j/ws^/ce, can there be any sane- 
iilyP'^ — this question, so clear in itself, but so skillfully ob- 
scured by the casuists, was replaced in its day ; the theatre 
strengthened religion and morality,t shattered in the church. 

The author of the Tartuffe has taken his subject, not in 
general society, but in a more contracted sphere ; in the family, 
the fireside, in the sanctum sanctorum of modern life. This 
comedian, this impious man, was of all men the one who had, 
most at heart, the religion of the family, yet family peace was 
denied to him. Tender and melancholy, he said sometimes about 
himself, in his domestic griefs, a grave saying which charac- 
terizes him : "I should have foreseen that one thing rendered 
me little suitable for the society of a family, my austerityP^ 

* The appearance of Tartuffe, and the Conquest of Flanders, mark ihe 
literary and political apogee of the age of Louis XIV. France, which up 
to that time represented the modern principle, then turned against this prin- 
ciple ; attacked Holland, and thus distantly prepared the marriage between 
Holland and England, that is, the grandeur of England and her own ruin. 

t St. Evremond, a wit, writes to a friend: — " I have just read the Tar- 
tuffe. — If I be saved, I shall owe my salvation to it. Devotion is so rea- 
sonable in the mouth of Cleante, that she forces me to renounce all my 
philosophy ; and the false devotees are so well painted, that the shame of 
their picture will make them renounce hypocrisy. Holy piety, what heiie- 
fits you bring to the world .'" Letter qujoted in the editon of M. Aim6 Mar- 
tin, (1837,) vol. iii. p. 125. 

* See his Life by Grimarest, the notice of M. Genin, (Plutarch Fran- 
gais) and the Biography of Moliere, by M. E. Noel. 



THE TARTUFFE. 69 

The Tartvffe^ that great and sublime fresco, is of a very 
simple design — more shadowed, it would have been less popu- 
lar. The mental restriction^ and the direction of intention^ 
two things at which, since the Provincial Letters, every body 
laughed, were sufficient for Moliere. He dared not put upon 
the scene the new mysticism, then too little known or too 
dangerous. 

Perhaps, if he had employed the jargon of Desmarets, and 
of the first Quietists, if he had put into the mouth of Tartuffe 
their mystical tenderness, there might have happened what did 
to the ridiculous sonnet of the misanthrope — the pit might have 
admired. 

On the eve of the first representation of Tartuffe^ Mo- 
liere read the piece to Ninon ; " and to pay him in the 
same coin she told him a similar adventure which had hap- 
pened her with a wretch of the same kind, whose portrait she 
drew with such lively and natural colours, that if the piece 
had not been written, he said he would never have under- 
taken it." 

What could then be wanting to this master-piece, to this 
drama so profoundly conceived, so powerfully executed ? 
Undoubtedly nothing but what was excluded by the religious 
situation of the times, and the customs of our theatre. 

One thing impossible to show in so short a drama, (and 
which constitutes the true procedure of the Hypocrite,) w^as 
the preparatory intrigue, the long circuits by which he moves 
to his purpose — his patient art — his slow fascination. 

All is strong here, but a little rude. This man received, 
through charity, into the house, this low scoundrel ; this glut- 
ton who eats as much as six; this rascal ivith the red ear — 
how does he grow bold so quick, and look so high ? The 
declaration of such a man to such a lady, of an intended son- 
in-law to his future step-mother, astonishes in the reading. 
On the stage, perhaps one may bear with it better. 

Elmira, when the Tartuffe makes her liis point blaidv sur- 



70 MADEMOISELLE BOURIGNON. 

prising declaration, is by no means prepared to understand 
him. A true hypocrite would have managed the thing much 
otherwise. Humble and patient, he would have slowly ob- 
tained a footing in the house, and have awaited the favorable 
moment. If, for example, Elmira had experienced the indis- 
cretions, the levities of worldly lovers, spoken of by Tartuffe, 
when broken with these trials, enervated, feeble and weary, he 
might have accosted her ; then perhaps she herself might have 
said, in the sweet, Quietist jargon, many things that she can- 
not understand at the moment when Moliere takes her. 

Mademoiselle Bourignon, in her curious Life, a book that 
should be reprinted, relates in what danger she found herself 
in consequence of her confidence in a saint of this kind. I let 
her tell her own story. It must, however, be understood be- 
forehand, that the pious damsel, who had come to an inherit- 
ance, thought of employing this property in pious works — for 
example, in endowments of convents. 

'• One day, being in the streets of Lille, I met a man whom 
1 knew not, who said to me while passing: 'You wuU not do 
what you wish — you will do w'hat you do not wish.' Two 
days after, the same man came to my house, and said, ' What 
did you think of me P ' That you were,' answered I, ' either 
a fool or a prophet.' ' IS'either,' said he ; ' I am a poor man, 
of a village near Douay. I am called Jean of St. Saulieu. I 
have no study but that of charity. I first lived with a hermit, 
and now I have, as a director, my ciire^ M. Roussel. I teach 
poor children to read. The finest charity that you can do is, 
to shelter the little orphan girls ; there are so many of them 
since the wars ! The convents are rich enough.' He spoke 
three hours consecutively with much unction. 

" I inquired of the cure regarding him, and he assured me 
that he was a man of a zeal quite apostolical. [We may re- 
7nark that the cure had Jirst tried to gain the rich heiress for 
his own nephew ; the nephew having failed^ he urged his crea- 
ture.] Saint Saulieu often returned and spoke divinely of 



A SAINT. 71 

spiritual things. I did not understand how a man without 
study could speak in a manner so lofty of divine mysteries. 
J thought him really inspired by the Holy Spirit. He himself 
said that he was dead to nature. He had been a soldier, and 
had returned from the war as uncontaminated as a child. By 
force of abstinence, he had lost the taste of aliments and drinks, 
and could no more distinguish wine from beer ! He passed 
the best part of his time on his knees in the churches. If seen 
walking in the street, it w^as with modest air and downcast 
eyes, without regarding any thing, and as if he had been alone 
in the world. He visited the poor, and sick, and gave away 
all that he possessed. In the winter season, did he see a poor 
man without sufficient clothing, he would draw him aside, 
take off his coat and give it to him. My heart was rejoiced 
to find that there were such men in the world ; I thanked God 
for it, and thought to have found here another myself. The 
priests and other pious persons had the same confidence; they 
went to consult him, and received good counsels. 

" I had much repugnance against going from my solitude to 
found this children's hospital that St. Saulieu advised. But 
he brought me a merchant who had begun the same thing, 
and who oflered me a house into which he had already re- 
ceived some poor little girls. I entered there in November, 
1653. 1 washed these children, who were dirty enough to 
horrify one. I had much trouble, having nobody with me 
who liked to work. But at last, I made a rule, subjecting my- 
self to it, putting every thing in common, and eating at the 
same table. I kept myself alone as much as I could ; but I 
was obliged to speak to all sorts of persons. IMonks and 
devotees came, whose conversation scarcely pleased me — I 
was twice or thrice sick almost to death. 

'^The house in which St. Saulieu taught having been de- 
stroyed, and himself sent away, he withdrew to the merchant''s 
house of whom 1 have spoken. They solicited me to aid in 
building a hospital like mine, for boys. To procure the first 



72 A DECEIVER UNVEILED. 

funds for it, St. Saulieu was to farm a bureau in the city, which 
was worth two thousand francs a year, and the revenue of 
which would go for that foundation. I became security for 
him. He received one year, and then said, that it was neces- 
sary, before beginning any thing, to receive a year farther, in 
order to have wherewith to furnish the house. This made 
four thousand francs ; when he had gained six thousand, he 
kept it, saying it was the fruit of his labour, and that he had 
well earned it. 

" I had not awaited this to enter into distrust. I had had 
regarding this man, strange revelations. I saw one day a black 
wolf playing with a little white sheep. Another day I saw the 
heart of St. Saulieu, and an infant Moor with a crown and 
sceptre of gold, who was seated upon it, as if the devil had 
been the king of his heart. I did not conceal these visions 
from him — but he flew into a passion, and said that I ought to 
confess myself for thinking so ill of a neighbour, who, far 
from being a black wolf, on the contrary, in approaching me, 
became more and more white and chaste. 

" One day, however, he told me that we ought to be mar- 
ried, still preserving our virginity, that in this union we should 
be able to do more good. To which I answered, that such 
an union required no marriage. He made me, however, some 
little demonstration of friendship — to w^hich I at first paid no 
attention. At last, he suddenly revealed himself: said that he 
desperately loved me ; that for several years he had read spirit- 
ual books, the better to gain me ; that now having had so much 
access to me, 1 must be his wife, either through love, or force. 
And he approached to caress me. I felt very angry, and or- 
dered him to begone. Then he melted into tears, fell on his 
knees, and told me that it was the devil that tempted hira. I 
was good enough to believe him and accord him pardon. 

" The thing did not rest here — he was continually resuming 
it. He followed me every where ; he entered the house in 
spite of my girls. He even went so far as to put a knife under 



FLEMISH TARTUFFE. 73 

my throat to oblige me to yield. At the same time he every 
where gave out that he had possessed me,* ' that I was his 
promised wife? In vam I complained to his confessor, then 
to the justice, who gave me two men to guard my house, and 
began to make inquiries. St. Saulieu immediately quitted Lille 
and went to Ghent, where he found one of my girls, very de- 
vout, who passed for a mirror of perfection ; he lived with her 
till tell-tale consequences followed. He had arranged his affiiir 
at Lille by favour of having a brother among the Jesuits ; 
they employed their friends, and he was acquitted on paying 
the costs, retracting his slanders, and acknowledging that I 
was a virtuous girl."^ 

This took place from 1653 to 1658; consequently, only a 
few years before the representation of the Tartuffe of Moliere, 
who played the first three acts in 1664. Every thing induces 
us to believe that the adventure was not uncommon at that 
period. Tartuffe, Orgon, all the personages of that truly his- 
torical piece, are not abstract beings, pure creations of art, 
like the heroes of Corneille or Racine — they are real men, 
and drawn to the life. 

What is striking in the Flemish Tartu fTe of Madam Giselle 
de Bourignon, is his patience in studying and learning the mys- 
tics, in order to speak their language, and the perseverance 
with which he associated himself during several years, to the 
thoughts of the pious girl. 

If Moliere had not been confined to so narrow a frame, if 
his Tartuffe had had time to prepare better his advances; if he 
had been able (a thing then undoubtedly too dangerous) to take 
the mantle of Desmarets, and of the growing Quietism, he 
would have been nearer the goal, without being discovered. — 
The hypocrite would not, almost at the very commencement, 
made the confession that he is a rogue, and that, too, (a con- 

* I have ahridf^cd and mixed the two recitals of iMadeinoisclle de Boiirig- 
non. See the soquel oi" Vol. I. of her works, (Amsterdam, 1GS6,) page 63— 
80, and 188—197. 

7 



74 POWER OF TARTUFFE. 

fession the least seductive of all,) to the very person whom he 
is striving to corrupt. Nor would he have ventured upon the 
expression, " If it be only heaven*" — Act IV., scene 5. Instead 
of suddenly unmasking the ugliness of corruption, he would 
have developed it in the painting by slow degrees. From equi- 
voque to equivoque, by a skilful explanation he might have 
made corruption itself seem perfection. Nay, there might, at 
last have happened to him what has happened to many. He 
might have played the part so long, that he would finish by 
ceasing to have need of hypocrisy; having deceived and se- 
duced himself into the belief that he was a saint. Then he 
would have been Tartuffe in the superlative degree, Tartuffe 
not to the world only, but to Tartuffe himself; having per- 
fectly extinguished all the light of good within him, and re- 
posed himself in evil with the security of an ignorance, at 
first desired — now become sincere. 



(75) 



CHAPTER VII. 

Appearance of Molinos^ 1675. — His Success at Rome. — French Quietists. — 
Madame Guyon. — He?- Dir-ector. — The Torrents. — The Mystical Death. — 
What Next ? 

The Spiritual Guide of Molinos was published at Rome 
in 1675. The world having been prepared for twenty years 
for this work, by publications of the same tendency, and the 
Guide being highly approved by the inquisitors of Rome and 
of Spain, had a success at that time unique. In twelve years 
it was translated and reprinted twenty times.* 

It is not astonishing that this guide to the annihilation of 
self— this method of mystical death was so eagerly received. 
There was at that time throughout all Europe a great feeling 
of fatigue. This century, already far from having fulfilled its 
duty, panted for repose. This fact appears in its doctrines. — 
The philosophy of Descartes, which gave the age its impulse, 
became itself inactive and contemplative in Malafranche, 
(1674.) Spinoza, (1670) had made God, man, and the world 
immoveable in the unity of substance. In 1676, Hobbes gave 
the world his theory of political fatalism. 

Spinosa, Hobbes, and Molinos, death in metaphysics, death 
in politics, death in morality! What a gloomy choir! they 
agree without knowing, without understanding each other, 
they seem to respond from one end of Europe to the other ! 

Poor human liberty has only the choice of suicide. At the 
north it allows itself to be pushed by logic into the abysses 
of Spinosa; at the south, seduced by the sweet voice of IMoli- 
nos, it is lulled to sleep in the Maremmes^ never to awaken. 

* This is the testimony which his enthusiastic admirer, the archbishop 
of Palermo, renders, at the head of the Latin translation, 1G87. 



76 THEOLOGY OF REPOSE. 

The age is, however, in its lustre, in all its triumph. Time 
is necessary in order that these thoughts of discouragement 
and death may pass from theories to facts, and that politics 
may participate in this moral languor. 

There is a critical moment, interesting in every life, between 
the age of growing strength, and the age still brilliant, when 
the strength sinks, and the descent imperceptibly begins. Jn 
the month of August the trees have all their leaves, but at 
last their colour clouds, more than one has faded, and in their 
splendid summer they present you their autumn. 

Now, for some time a lukewarm wind blew from the south, 
from Italy, or rather from Spain. Italy was too dead, too 
near the sepulchre, even to be able to produce a doctrine of 
death. It was a Spaniard established at Rome, in Italian lan- 
guor, who gave that theory, and who drew the practical 
method from it. At length it became necessary that his dis- 
ciples should oblige him to write and to publish. For twenty- 
years Molinos was contented to sow, with little noise, his doc- 
trine at Rome. He bore it all quietly from palace to palace. 
The Theology of Repose was going on marvellously at the 
city of the catacombs; at that city of silence, where, since 
that time, little has been heard ^'but a small rustling of worms 
at the sepulchre." 

When the Spaniard came to Rome, she had scarcely come 
out of the feminine pontificate of Madam Olympia. The Order 
of Jesus itself slept in the delicate hands of its general, Oliva, 
amongst sumptuous vines, exotic flowers, lilies and roses. 
Jt was to those indolent Romans, to that idle nobility, to those 
beautiful sluggards who live on couches, with their eyes half 
closed, that towards evening Molinos came to speak — must I 
say speak ? That low voice, mute, as it were, is confounded 
in this half sleep with their internal dreams. 

Quietism had quite another character in France. In a living 
country, even the theory of death will show^ life. They 
were at infinite pains to prove that it was no longer necessary 



MADAME GUYON. 77 

to act. This did injury to the doctrine; the noise, the light 
hurt it. A friend of darkness, the delicate plant wished to 
grow in the shade. Without speaking of the chimerical Des- 
marets, who could only render an opinion ridiculous, Malaval 
appeared to foresee that by the new doctrine Christianity was 
outdone. On the subject of the saying of Jesus, "I am the 
way," an astonishing speech escaped from him in that age. 
"Since he is the way, let us pass through him — hat he who 
always passes^ never arrives?"^* 

Our French Quietists, in their lucid analysis, in their rich 
and fruitful developments, made known for the first time 
"what had scarcely been divined under the obscure form that 
Quietism had prudently preserved in other countries. Many 
things which seemed in other countries in the germ, scarcely 
formed, appeared with Madam Guy on in their bloom, it was 
a complete light, a sun at high noon. The singular purity of 
this woman rendered her intrepid in the exposition of the most 
dangerous ideas. Pure from interest, she was also pure from 
imagination ; she never had any need to represent under a 
material form the object of her pious love.f This was what 
raised her mysticism much above the gross and sensual devo- 
tions of the Sacred Heart, commenced by the Visitandine 
Marie Alacoque about the same time. Madam Guyon was too 
spiritual to give "figure to her God," she really loved a spirit. 
• Hence arose her confidence, an unlimited boldness. She 
bravely attempts, without suspecting that she is brave, the 
most hazardous steps; she goes from high to low, even to 
places the most avoided ; where every body is frightened and 
stops, she goes on still, like a light which shines upon every 
thing, without ever itself becoming sullied. 

* Malaval Pratique facile, 1670. The first part had been aheady printed 
twice. 

t See her life, v^'rittcn by herself, Cologne, 1720, vol. 1, p. 80. My 
prayer was from that time void of all forms, kinds and images. See also 
page 83, against visions. 

1* 



78 THE TORRENTS. 

These boldnesses, innocent in a woman so pure, had not 
the less a dangerous influence upon the weak. Her confessor, 
the father Lacombe, was shipwrecked in that abyss, was 
swallowed up and perished in it. The person and the doc- 
trine had equally perplexed him. All that we know of his 
connection with her betrays a strange weakness, that she 
scarcely seems from the height at which she hovered, to have 
deigned to remark. The first time that he saw her, still 
young, again married, and thinking of her old husband, he 
was so vividly smitten at the heart, that he fainted. After- 
wards, having become her humble disciple, under the name 
of director, he accompanied her every where in her adventu- 
rous life in France and Savoy. He did not quit her one step, 
''and could not have dined without her." He had become 
himself a caricature of her. Arrested at the same time as 
herself, in 1687, he was ten years a prisoner in the forts of 
the Pyrenees. In 1698, they took advantage of his weakness 
of mind to make him write a compromising letter to Madam 
Guyon.* " The poor man," said she, laughing, " has become 
a dotard." He was so much so that, a few days after, he 
died at Clarenton. 

This folly astonishes me but little when I read the Torrents 
of Madam Guyon, that capricious book, charming and terri- 
ble. I must say a word respecting it. 

When she wrote it, she happened to be at Annecy, at the 
convent of the JVew Converts, She had left her property to 
her family, and even the small income that she reserved to 
herself, she gave to that religious house, in which she was 
treated very ill. This delicate woman, who had passed her 
life in luxury, was obliged to labour with her hands beyond 
her strength, in washing and sweeping. Father Lacombe, 
then at Rome, recommended her to write whatever came into 
her mind. " It is to obey," said she, " that I am going to 

* See the correspondence of Bossuet, the relation of Phelippeaux, &C. 



MYSTICISM. 79 

write what I know not myself." She took a ream of paper, 
and at its head wrote these words : The Torrents. 

Even as the torrents of the Alps, the rivulets, the streams, 
the rivers, and all the waters which descend from them, run 
with all their force to the sea, in like manner our souls, by an 
effect of their spiritual inclination, hasten to return and lose 
themselves in God. This comparison of the living waters is 
not to her a simple text which serves as a point of departure; 
she follows it, in almost the whole volume, with a grace al- 
ways reviving. One would fancy that this amiable prattle 
might at length weary — but no. It is plainly perceptible that 
this facility is not a mere affair of the tongue — it has its source 
in the heart. The author was evidently an unlettered woman. 
She had read the Imitation, the Philothea of St. Francis, Don 
Quixotte, and some short narratives. She knew nothing at all, 
and had seen but little. Nay, the very Torrents which she 
described, she observed not in the Alps where she was — siie 
saw them in herself, and regarded nature in the mirror of her 
own heart. 

One reads this book as if he were actually musing near the 
brink of a cascade, where he could hear the murmuring of 
waters. They fall evermore with a sweetness, an enchant- 
ment, varying their monotony by a thousand accidents of 
noise and light. You see the approach of waters in all forms 
—the images of human souls. There are rivers which are 
content to gain other rivers ; there are those which pursue 
their way slowly to the sea, great majestic currents, all cover- 
ed with boats, and travellers, and merchandise. These last 
(which represent the souls of saints and great teachers) are 
admired and blessed for the benefits which they render. 
There are other streams more narrow and more rapid, which 
are good for nothing, which cannot be navigated, which run 
and precipitate themselves, as if impatient to surrender them- 
selves to the great sea. These waters liave terrible falls — 
sometimes tliey sully themselves — now they disappear ! Ah ! 



80 DEATH OF THE SOUL. 

poor torrent, what hast thou become ? It is not lost yet ; it 
returns to the surface but only to lose itself anew. It is very 
far yet from reaching the sea. Before that happen it must be 
broken on the rocks, scattered, and in a manner annihilated. 

When she has led her torrent to this great fall, the compari- 
son of the living water causes her be at fault — she leaves it; 
the torrent again becomes a soul. No image of nature could 
express what this soul is about to suffer. There begins a 
strange drama in which it might seem no person dared to ven- 
ture — that of tlie mystical death. One may find in previous 
books a word here and there upon this obscure subject, but 
nobody had yet opened the tomb to this point — the profound 
grave in which the soul is about to be buried. Madame 
Guyon brings to the work a kind of complacence and perse- 
verance, (I was going to say eagerness,) in searching still 
deeper — seeking beyond all funereal ideas a death more defini- 
tive, a death more dead still. 

There are many things in this book which we would hardly 
expect from the hand of a woman. Dragged along by passion, 
the writer forgets reserve. From the soul about to become 
extinct, the Divine Lover strips her ornaments — the gifts 
which adorn her. Her vestments — that is to say, the virtues 
in which she had enveloped herself — are torn away. Oh 
shame ! She finds herself naked, and knows not where to 
hide ! But this is not enough. She is deprived of her beauty. 
Horror ! She discovers herself ugly ! A terrified wanderer^ 
as she vv^ildly runs, she stains herself. The more eagerly she 
runs toward God, " the more is she soiled in the paths full of 
filth through which she must run." Poor, naked, ugly, and 
dirty, she loses the taste for every thing — the understanding, 
the memory, and the will. At last, beyond the loss of the 
will, she loses a something indescribable, " which is her 
favourite," and which would take the place of all,* (the idea 

* All — Utterly untranslatable in a sentence, though the author has 
supplied in a parenthesis something of a key. When a mystic had got rid 



SPIRITUAL DEATH. 81 

Ihat she is a child of God.) This is properly the death to 
which she must arrive. No person, neither director, nor any 
one else, can offer solace here. She must die; she must be 
put into the earth that the crowd may walk above her — that 
she may grow putrid, rot, and suffer the odour and fetor of a 
corpse, until, the rottenness becoming dust and ashes, there 
scarcely subsists any thing which can recall the fact that the 
soul has ever existed. 

This dust and ashes, which was the soul, if it thinks at all, 
must, apparently, think that it will remain for ever, immovea- 
ble, in the bosom of the earth. Ah ! What surprise is this ? 
A straggling ray from the sun darthig for a moment through 
a crack in the tomb ? But no — the ray endures, death warms 
to life again, the soul obtains a strength — and in some manner 
a life, but it is not its own life, it is the life in God. It has 
no longer either will or desire. What has it to do to possess 
what it loves ? Nothing, nothing, and always nothing. In 
this condition can it have any faults ? Undoubtedly it has some, 
it knows them, but does nothing to get rid of them,* for to do 
this it would be necessary for it to come back, to occupy itself 
with itself " These are little clouds that must be allowed 
to dissipate themselves. The soul has now God for a soul, 
he is henceforth its principle of life — it is one^ and identicaL 

"In this condition, nothing occurs extraordinary — no visions, 
no revelations, ecstasies, ravishment. Such things are not in 
this path, which is simple, pure, and naked, seeing nothing but 
in God, as God sees himself and by his eyes."* 

Thus tlie book ends, after so many immoral and dangerous 
things, in a singular purity, which the most of the mystics have 



of understanding, memory, will, and ihat " something" more, the soul lost 
itself in all — and had no longer its identity. Very much like nonsense; 
and if the reader does not understand ii in English, he may he very sure 
that there are ahundancc of people who do not comprehend it in iho origi- 
nal. — Trans. 

* Madurn Guyon, the Torrents, (Opuscules, Cologne, 1701, p. 291.) 



82 A FALLACY. 

not approached. A sweet revival, without vision or ecstasy, a 
view, divinely plain and serene, becomes the portion of the 
soul, which shall have traversed all the degrees of death. 

If we understand Madam Guyon, the life bruised, sullied, de- 
stroyed, will awake in God. That which has passed through- all 
the horrors of the tomb, which, living, became a corpse, which 
has communed with the worms, and having become rottenness 
has fallen to dust and ashes, will again resume life and flour- 
ish in the sun ! 

What less credible, less conformable to nature ? She de- 
ceives herself and us by an equivoque. The life that she 
promises us after this death, is not ours. To our identity ex- 
tinguished, effaced, annihilated, another will succeed, infinite, 
perfect — but which is not ours. 

I had not read the Torrents^ when all this was for the first 
time represented to my mind. I ascended the saint Gothard, 
and advanced to meet the violent Reuss, which descends the 
mountain in a course so furious. In spite of myself, I associated 
the imagination to the terrible labour by which it pierced its 
route through the rocks which confine it and bar its passage. 
I was frightened at its falls, the efforts that it seems to make, 
like a poor soul in trouble, in order to fly, to hide and be seen 
no more. It twists at the Devil's bridge, and exactly at the 
point in which it does so, lanches from an immense height to 
the bottom of the abyss. For a moment it ceases to be a river — 
it is only a tempest between heaven and earth, a glacial vapour, 
a frightful winH of hoar-frost which obscures the dark valley. 
Ascend higher, still higher. You traverse a cavern, you pass a 
hollow rock. And here is where the noise ceases. It is all over 
with this great combat. There is peace, and silence. And life, 
does it recommence ? After that death struggle will you find 
the revival ? The spot is sterile, there are no more flowers, the 
grass is scarce and poor. Nothing animated moves, not a bird 
in the firmament, not an insect upon the earth. It is true that 
you again see the sun, but without rays, without heat. 



(83) 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Fer^elon as Director. — His Quietism. — Maxims of the Saints^ 1697. — Fene- 
Ion and Madame de Maisonfort. 

Madame Guyon was not, it would seem, quite the extrava- 
gant and chimerical person that her enemies represent her. On 
arriving at Paris from Savoy, she was shrewd enough to dis- 
cern and win, immediately, the man most capable of caus- 
ing her doctrines to be relished. He was a man of genius, 
who had, moreover, an infinite deal of wit and address. He 
had, in addition, the merit which, if need be, will atone for the 
absence of all others — that of being, just at that moment, the 
spiritual director most in fashion. To Madame Guyon, the 
new Chantal, a St. Francis was necessary. She found him in 
Fenelon — less severe and innocent it is true, less radiant with 
youth and seraphic beauty, but singularly noble and polished, 
subtile, eloquent, self-possessed, and very politic* 

She laid hands upon him, seized him, and carried him off 
without difficulty. This great and fine mind which contained 
every thing, and every contradiction, would have probably 
fluctuated for ever, but for this powerful impulsion which cast 
him on one side. Hitherto he had varied amongst diverse opi- 
nions, between opposite parties and bodies, in such a manner 
that each claimed him as its own, and believed it had him. — 
An assiduous courtier of Bossuet whose disciple he called him- 
self, and whom he did not quit a step in his retreats to the 
Meaux — he was not less a friend to the Jesuits, and between 



♦ See the learned Tabaraud, (Supplement to Bossuet's History, 1832,) 
and the appreciation very fine, very judicious, of two excellent critics, M. 
Monty (De M. Le due de Burgoyne,) and M, Thomas, (Ujie Frovifice sons 
Louis XI V.) 



84 FEXELON. 

the two, he still held to St. Sulpice. In this theolo^- inclining 
now to grace, and now to free-will — imbufed with the old 
mystics, and yet full of anticipations of the eighteenth centun*", 
he seems to have under his faith, some obscure corners of 
skepticism, which he was careful not to sound. All these ele- 
ments, incapable of mixing, all harmonized externally in the 
easy undulations of his delicate and graceful mind. Greek 
and Christian, he recalled at once, the fathers, the philoso- 
phers, and the romancers of the Alexandrian era. Sometimes, 
too, the sophist suddenly became a prophet, and, in a sermon, 
tried a flight upon the wings of Isaiah. 

Every thing induces us to believe that the wonderful author 
was the lesser moiety of Fenelon. As a director he excelled 
all others. Who can say by what spell he caught and en- 
chanted souls ? One perceives it in the fascination of his cor- 
respondence, mutilated as it is.* No one has been more 
cruelly cut up, expurgated, and designedly obscured. Even 
in these fragments and scattered remains the charm continues 
potent yet. Besides the loftiness of manner, the confident and 
sharp tone which seems to indicate that he feels himself little 
less than an apostle, he has that which is peculiar to himself 
—woman's delicacy without her weakness, and an indescriba- 
ble something, tender and affecting, carried to the very refine- 
ment of subtilty. While yet young, and before he became the 
preceptor of the Duke of Burgundy, he had for a long time 
directed the new converts. There he had opportunity to study 
woman, and to acquire that perfect knowledge of the female 
heart, in which no other has approached him. The passion- 
ate interest which they took in his fortune ; the tears of that 
little flock, the Dutchesses of Che\Teuse, of Beauvilliers, and 
others, when he failed of obtaining the archbishopric of Paris, 
and their obstinate fidelity to their well-beloved guide, in the 

* A bishop, then inspector of the University, has boasted before me, 
(and before several persons who can testify to it if necessary,) of having 
burned Fenelon's Letters. 



QUIETISM AT VERSAILLES. 85 

exile to Cambray, in which he remained until his death — all 
this is supplied by the mutilated correspondence. It gives an 
extraordinary idea of the magician whose invincible spells no 
power could break. 

What a rash enterprise it was to introduce into that world 
of expedients and ceremonies, Versailles, a spirituality so re- 
fined and lofty — such a pretension to the supreme perfection ! 
It was done, too, at the end of a reign when every thing seemed 
frozen. Fenelon could not introduce Quietism at Versailles 
by losing himself, like Madame Guyon, in the solitude of the 
Alps, and the torrents of the Divine love. It was necessary 
to put the appearance of good sense, and the manner of reason, 
even into this folly of love. It was requisite, as says the an- 
cient comedian, to become mad hy rule and measure. This is 
what F'enelon tried in the Maxims of the Saints. Molinos 
condemned, Madame Guyon imprisoned at Versailles, he 
was sufficiently warned. He declared himself, but prudently, 
and kept in the manner of his decisions even, a sort of 
indecision. 

Nevertheless, with all his ability, his address and his wind- 
ings, if he differ from the absolute Quietist whom he affects to 
condemn, it is less upon the principles of the doctrine than the 
degree to which he admits it. He thought he was doing a 
great deal in saying that the state of quietude in which the 
soul loses activity is, not a state perpetually^ but habitually^ 
passive. In acknowledging inaction superior to action, as the 
perfect state, does he not make it desirable that the inactivity 
should be perpetual ? 

That soul, according to Fenelon, which has become habitu-' 
ally passive, concentrates itself on high, leaving its inferior 
part below. The acts of tliat inferior part are entirely blind 
and involuntary. But, these acts being accounted voluntary^ 
he acknowledges that the superior part is responsible for them. 
Are the acts of the inferior then regulated by the superior part ? 
By no means. It is absorbed in its high quietude. Who, 

8 



86 MAN, ALWAYS MAN ! 

then, interferes at this point of deficiency ? Who prevents 
disorder in the lower sphere, when the soul no more descends 
to regulate it ? Fenelon expressly says, " It is the director,^'^^ 

Although in theory Fenelon modifies Molinos, that is less 
important than it seems. The speculative part of the matter, 
which so much occupied Bossuet, is not the most important in 
a case where the practical is so directly interested. It is a se- 
rious consideration that Fenelon as well as Molinos, having 
erected a great scaffolding of rules, still did not furnish rules 
enough. Every moment the aid of the director is necessary. 
He establishes a system — but that system cannot go alone. 
The hand of man is indispensable to it. This inert theory 
requires every moment the supplement of a consultation— an 
empirical expedient. The director is to the soul as a supple- 
mentary soul, which, while the soul proper sleeps upon the 
mountain, regulates and conducts every thing for it in the world 
down below, this world of realities. 

Thus it is, man always man, that you find at the heart of 
their doctrines by squeezing and pressing them. Man is the 
ultima ratio of their systems, and as their theory is, such is 
their practice* 1 leave these illustrious adversaries, Fenelon 
and Bossuet, to fight for opinions. I like better to observe 
their practice. There I find that the theory is little, the man 
much. Quietists and anti-Quietists do not essentially differ in 
their method of smothering the soul and benumbing the will. 

Behind this combat of theories — and indeed before the 
combat of theories commenced — there was a personal com- 
bat between the parties, very curious to observe. 
; The wager of the combat, if J dare so to speak, the spiritual 
conquest that the tw^o parties dispirted with each other for, 
was a woman, a charming soul, full of rapture and youth, im- 
prudent vivacity and naive truth.* She was a niece of Madame 

* Maxims of the Saints, article 14. See also 8, 20, 39, 4. 
t What a singular destiny was that of the young girl, whose tears Ra- 
cine one day wiped away, (she played Elise in Esther j) and whom Fenelpn 



ST. CYR. 87 

Guyon, a young damsel who was called Madam (she was 
a canoness) de la Maisonfort. This lady, noble and poor, 
maltreated by a step-mother and a re-married father, had fallen 
into the cold and political hands of Madam de Maintenon. 
Whether for the vanity of founding, or as the means of amus- 
ing an old king little amusable, she was then building Saint 
Cyr for noble damsels. She knew that the king was always 
susceptible to women, and seldom allowed him to see any ex- 
cept old women or children. The boarders of Saint Cyr, who 
in the innocence of their games refreshed the eyes of the old 
man, brought to his mind another age, and afforded him a 
sweet and but little dangerous opportunity of paternal gallantry. 

Madam de Maintenon, who owed, as is known, her singular 
fortune to a certain decent harmony of mediocre qualities, 
sought something eminently mediocre, if one may thus speak, 
to govern that house. She could find nothing better any 
where than among the Sulpicians and the Lazarists. The 
Sulpician Godet, whom she took for her own director and that 
of St. Cyr, was a pedant of merit. This is nearly the defini- 
tion that St. Simon, who esteemed him, gives of him. Madam 
de Maintenon saw in him the dry and literal priest, who could 
secure her against every eccentricity. With such a person 
one could rest tranquil. Over the two men of genius who 
aspired to the direction at St. Cyr, the Jansenist Racine, and 
the Quietist Fenelon,* she preferred Godet. 

One need not to know its history ; only to see the house 
of St. Cyr, is to recognise without difficulty the true domicile 
of ennui. The soul of the foundress, that soul of a governess 
is there felt every where. One yawns even to look at it. 
Still if that building was gloomy, sadness itself is an aliment 

and Bossuet caused so much to weep ! See M. De Noailles, St. Cyr, p. 
113, (1843.) 

* '* Eiilicr Racine or M. de Cambray, in spoakinpr to you of Jansenism, 
would have dr.«gij:ed you into it," &,c.— Madam Muinlenon's Letters, 11., 
190— (edition of 17:)7.) 



88 MAISOXFORT. 

for the soul. No, it is not sad, neither is it gay ; there is 
nothing to be said about it, no character, no style, nothing 
that one can even find fault with. Of what age is the chapel? 
Neither the Gothic, nor the modern, it is not even the Jesuit 
style. But then, there is perhaps the Jansenist austerity } 
That is by no means austere. What is it then ? Nothing. 
But this nothing has a power of weariness that one ceuld 
find no where else. 

After the first moment, half devout, half worldly, from the 
representations of ^Ithalle and Esther^ which the young girls 
had but too well played, the reformed boarding-house became 
a kind of convent. Instead of Racine, it was the Abbe Pe- 
legrin and Madam Maintenon who wrote pieces for St. Cyr.* 
The Lady Instructresses must be nuns. A great change, 
which displeased Louis XIV. himself,! and might have com- 
promised the new establishment. Madam Maintenon seems 
to have been sensible of it, and she sought for the foundation 
stone of her edifice^ a lining stone, alas ! a woman full of grace 
and life. It was the poor Maisonfort that they decided to 
veil, cloister, and seal up in the foundations of St. Cyr. 

But Madam de Maintenon, competent hitherto in all she 
tmdertook, was foiled here. La Maisonfort was spirited and 
independent. All the kings and queens in the world would 
have failed in compelling her against her inclination. Her heart 
alone, skillfully touched, could lead her where they wished. 
Madam ^Maintenon, who was exceedingly tenacious of her 
purpose, made efibrts, at which, in reading her letters, we are 
astonished. Generally so reserved, in this correspondence 
she appears in a new character. She makes La Maisonfort 
her confidant, and in order to win her confidence in return, 
does not hesitate to avow to her that she is herself disgusiea 

* Unedited proverbs of Madam ^Maintenon, (1829.) See also her Con- 
versaiioDs, (162S,) arid her Spirit of the Instimte of the daughters of St. 
Louis, (1808.) 

t M. de Noailles, St. Cyr, p. 131. 



ESPOINAGE. 89 

with the world, and that, holding the highest place in it, she 
" was dying of melancholy and weariness." 

But a step much more efficacious was that of employing a 
new director — seductive — charming — irresistible. The Abbe 
de Fenelon, at that time on the best of terms with Madam 
Maintenon, dined every Sunday with her, the dutchesses of 
Beauvilliers and Chevreuse. These parties were strictly 
entre elles — no servants being admitted to listen to the con- 
versation. The attraction of La Maisonfort to the unique Fe- 
nelon was very great — and the authority of her patroness 
directed her to follow this attraction. " See the Abbe de Fene- 
lon," Madam de Maintenon wrote to her, ^' accustom yourself 
to his traits of mind and character.* 

This agreeable command to so pleasant a course she fol- 
lowed only too well. With such a man — one who put every 
thing in the most agreeable light by his own charming man- 
ner of treating it, and who simplified and facilitated matters 
the most difficult, the neophyte did not walk, but flew between . 
heaven and earth, in the sweet indiflference of the Love Di- 
vine. So much attraction, sanctity and freedom, all at once, 
was too powerful for her poor heart. 

St. Simon relates by what means of espionage and treachery 
Godet obtained proof of the presence of Quietism in St. Cyr. 
But he needed not so much address. La Maisonfort was so 
pure as to be imprudent. In the happiness of that new spi- 
rituality into which she had entered with her whole soul, she 
said even more than her persecutors wished her to say. 

Suspected as Fenelon had then become, she was, however, 
left to him, until she had made great progress. They expect- 
ed that she would, under that influence, notwithstanding her 
protestations and her tears, take the veil, and permit the filial 
grate to be closed for ever upon her. 

Two consultations were held at St. Cyr, to determine the 

* LeUer quoted by Phdlippeaux, Jielationc du Quietesmoj vol. i. 48. 
^ 8* 



90 COLD DESERTION. 

fate of the victim. Godet, supported by the Lazarists, Thi- 
berg and Brisacier, determined that she should become a nun; 
and Fenelon, who was one of this beautiful council, did not 
oppose their decision. She relates herself that during the de- 
liberation, "she withdrew before the Holy Sacrament in a 
terrible agony — that she thought she should die of grief, and 
that she shed all night in her chamber a torrent of tears. 

The deliberation was a matter of pure form. Madame de 
Maintenon had determined — it remained for them only to obey. 
No person, at that moment, depended more upon her than 
Fenelon. The decisive crisis for Quietism had arrived. The 
question was, whether the teacher, doctor, scribe, and prophet 
of the doctrine — a person little agreeable to the king, by 
whom, however, he was, as yet, not much known — should 
obtain the high position in the church to which his friends 
desired to push him, while yet his doctrine had not burst forth. 
From thence came his unlimited devotion to Madame Mainte- 
non — from thence the sacrifice of the poor Maisonfort to her 
all powerful will. Fenelon, who perfectly understood how 
little was her inclination to the veil, sacrificed her, not indeed 
entirely for his personal interest, but for the advancement of his 
doctrines and the aggrandizement of his party. 

As soon as she was veiled, and cloistered for ever, he 
gradually withdrew from her acquaintance. Too frank and 
too imprudent, she had done his doctrines, (which were 
already sharply attacked,) an injury. He had no need of 
friendships which compromised him. He needed politic and 
wary supporters. He addressed himself, in his extremity, to 
the Jesuits, and took a confessor from among them. Their 
order had had the prudence to keep on terms with Quietists 
and anti-Quietists. 

To fall back from Fenelon to Godet, to re-enter his dry and 
hard direction was more than the new nun could endure. One 
day when he came to her with the little constitutions and 
minute rules which he had prepared in conjunction with Ma- 



SPIRITUAL JEALOUSY. 91 

dame de Maintenon, La Maisonfort could no longer contain 
herself. To his presence, and in that of the powerful founder 
of the house, Madame Maintenon, she boldly told him the 
contempt she felt for him. In a short time a lettre de cachet 
drove her cruelly from St. Cyr. 

Against all this hostile world — these Godets and Brisaciers 
she had made too excellent a defence. Abandoned by Fene- 
lon, she endeavoured to remain faithful to his doctrines, and 
was obstinate in retaining his books. It became necessary 
that they should call upon the great power of the times. Bos- 
suet, to reduce the rebel. But she would not receive the ad- 
vice of Bossuet, until she had inquired of Fenelon whether 
she might do so. To this last mark of confidence he replied, 
I regret to say, in a formal and sullen letter,* jealousy is too 
apparent in it, and regret at seeing her whom he had not de- 
fended, pass under the influence of another. 

* The letter is entire in Ph^lippeaux, I. — 164. "It is not an evidence 
that one is doing well, when there is need of so great a number of physi- 
cians," €t<; 



(92) 



CHAPTER IX. 

Bossuet as Director, — Bossuet and Sister Cornuau. — His Sincerity and his 
Imprudence, — He is a Quietest in Practice. — Devout Direction inclines to 
Quietism, — Mental Paralysis, 

Nothing can better establish tlie character of direction it- 
self than the correspondence of the most worthy and faithful 
director — I mean Bossuet. The test is decisive. If the re- 
sults are bad, it is the method and the system which we must 
censure, and not the man. 

The grandeur of his genius and the nobleness of his cha- 
racter naturally elevated Bossuet above the vulgar among 
directors — their trifles, jealousies, and intermeddhng tyrannies. 
We may believe one of his penitents, who says: ".Without 
condemning those directors, who rule even to the least thoughts 
and affections, Bossuet could not approve that practice in re- 
gard to souls who love God, and have made some progress 
in the spiritual life."* 

His correspondence is noble, worthy, serious. You find 
there none of the too caressing tenderness of St. Francis of 
Sales, and far less the refinements and passionate subtleties 
of Fenelon. Less austere than the letters of St. Cyran, those 
of Bossuet will very well compare with them for seriousness. 
They have often a loftiness of diction which seems not very 
well suited to the humble and mediocre persons to whom they 
are generally addressed*; but it has this advantage, that it 
keeps them at a distance, and excludes, even in the most con- 
fiding tete-a-tete^ too intimate approaches. 

If this correspondence has come down to us more entire than 
ihat of Fenelon, we owe it, (at least the most curious part,) to the 

* Works of Bossuet, advertisement of Sister Cornuau. 



bossuet's cabinet. 93 

reverence which a penitent of Bossuet, the good widow Cor- 
nuau, preserved for his memory. That worthy personage, in 
transmitting to us these letters, has religiously left in them a 
number of details humiliating enough for herself. She has 
forgotten her own vanity, and thought only of the fame of her 
spiritual father. In this, her friendship happily guided her; 
she has done for him, more than, perhaps, any panegyrist. 
These noble letters, written in profound secrec}^, and never 
intended to see the light, are worthy of being exposed to the 
perusal of the whole world. 

The good widow informs us that when she had the happi- 
ness to visit him in his solitude at Meaux, he sometimes re- 
ceived her in " a little place, very cold, where there was 
much smoke." This was, it would appear, the little pavilion 
which they show still, at the foot of the garden, on the old 
rampart of the city, which formed the terrace of the episcopal 
palace. Above the cabinet, which was upon the ground floor, 
in a little garret, the valet slept, whose duty it was to awaken 
Bossuet at early dawn. A dark and narrow path of holly and 
yew trees leads to this melancholy apartment — old dwarf and 
stunted trees, which have more and more interlaced their 
knotted branches and sharp leaves. The dreams of the past 
haunt the spot. You find there all the thorns of those great 
polemics, now so far from us ; the disputes of Jurieu and 
of Claude, — the stately history of the Variations, and the 
mortal combat of (iuietism, poisoned by betrayed friendship. 
Over the serious garden laid out in the French style, soars in 
its sweet majesty the tower of the cathedral ; but you can 
see it neither from the little dark alley, nor from the melan- 
choly cabinet — a place narrow, cold, and of ungracious as- 
pect. Notwithstanding its grand associations, the cabinet 
startles you with its emptiness, and recalls the day, when, in 
that fine genius, the best priest of his time, tiiis little apart- 
ment had a priest also. 



94 SISTER CORNUAU. 

There was only one way in which that ruling^ spirit could 
be touched, and that was by docility and obedience. In this 
the good Cornuau surpassed all that he could have expected. 
She exhibited very much, and we can perceive that she con- 
cealed more, through fear of displeasing. She endeavoured, 
as much as her natural mediocrity permitted, to follow the 
tastes and ideas of the great man. He had the spirit of 
government, and so, on a small scale, had she. She charged 
herself with the affairs of the community in which she 
resided, and at the same time busied herself in closing up 
those of her family. She waited thus fifteen years before 
she was permitted to become a nun. She at length obtained 
that privilege, and caused herself to be called Sister St. 
Benigne, taking, at the same time, a little boldly perhaps, the 
name of Bossuet. 

These real and positive cares, in which the wise director so 
long retained her, had the excellent effect of diverting and 
curbing her imagination. Hers was a nature passionate and 
honest, but a little common, with, unfortunately, judgment 
enough to confess to herself that it was so. She knew, and 
she said that she was only a little burgeoise, who had neither 
birth, nor a great mind — neither grace nor knowledge of the 
world — she had not once even seen Versailles ! How could 
she contend, near him, against his other spiritual daughters-^ 
high-born ladies, always brilliant even in their penitence and 
voluntary humiliations ? It seems that, at one time, she had 
aspired to requite herself in another way, and to rise above 
these worldlings by mystic vows. She announced, one day, 
that she had seen visions, and committed one to paper, betray- 
ing such poverty of imagination, that Bossuet did not encou- 
rage her. What could she do? Nature had refused her 
wings, and she could not fly. She had, at any rate, no pride, 
and did not attempt to conceal the gloomy state of her heart. 



GENEROUS JEALOUSY. 95 

The humiliating avowal escaped her, that " she was ready to 
burst with jealousy." 

It is a very touching circumstance that, after having made 
this avowal, the poor creature sacrificed self, and became the 
nurse of her of whom she was jealous ; and who was then 
afflicted with a frightful disease. She followed her to Paris, 
shut herself up with her, watched over and loved her ! Could 
this have been for the reason that usually produces an effect 
precisely the contrary ? Was it because the invalid was be- 
loved by Bossuet ? 

La Cornuau evidently deceived herself in her jealousy. It 
was herself who was preferred — we can see it now by a com- 
parison of the letters. For her he reserves all his little 
paternal indulgences — to her alone, he seems at times to 
melt, so far as his habitual gravity will permit. Occupied as 
Bossuet was, he found time to write to her nearly two hundred 
letters. He is certainly more firm and severe with the great 
lady of whom she is jealous, than with her. He becomes 
brief, and almost harsh with the lady, when he speaks of 
replying to the confessions a little broad, which she insists on 
making to him. He adjourns his answer indefinitely, (" to 
my great leisure,") and until that time arrived he forbade her 
to write to him upon such subjects ; if not he will " burn her 
letters without so much as reading them." (November 14, 
1691.) He says, in another place, very nobly, upon dehcate 
subjects which may trouble the imagination : " When it hap- 
pens that one may be compelled to speak of this description 
of difficulties, and to hear of them, touch the earth only with 
the end of the foot,'''* 

This perfect honesty, which wished to understand nothing 
of the bad, caused him to forget some things which he should 
have remembered, and to become too little circumspect. Em- 
boldened by his age, then very discreet, in moments of the 
transports of the mystical love, he indulged himself in indis- 



96 INDISCRETION OF BOSSUET. 

cretlons even before a witness so passionate as La Comuau. 
In the presence of a person who was simple, submissive, and 
inferior in every sense, he beheved himself alone, and giving 
wing to the lively sentiment of poetry which he possessed, 
even in his old age, he hesitated not to employ the mysterious 
language of the Song of Songs. It was to calm his penitent, 
and to confirm her purity, that he employed this burning lan- 
guage. I dare not copy the letter,* innocent undoubtedly, 



* Some one has done himself the easy pleasure to refute what I have 
not said, and to prove that Bossuet is an honest man, &c. Well, who has 
said to the contrary ? As this advocate knows not what Quietism is, Cany 
better than he understands the question of Grace and Free Will,) he cites 
from Bossuet, to exonerate him from Quietism, a passage eminently 
Quietist : ** Make no effort^ neither of the head nor of the heart, to uiiite 
yourself to your Spouse." (Oct. 26, 1694.) What I have said, and what 
I repeat is, that the most honest director in the world is yet very danger- 
ous ; that his language, dictated no doubt by a pure intention, is not the 
less hable to awake lust. Even when he denounces and forbids, he does 
it precisely in language most calculated to awaken what he forbids. I like 
not to contemplate, in these passages, a great man, an old nian, who has 
a right to our respect on other considerations. If, however, he wishes 
absolutely for proofs, let him read, (Jan. 17* 1692,) '* When the sweet 
wound of love," &c. (June 4, 1695,) ** Dare all things with the Celestial 
Spouse — liay hold upon him — I permit to you the most violent trans- 
ports," &c. (July 3, 1695,) " Jesus wills that one should be with him, 
he wishes joy, he wishes that one should joy with him, his holy flesh is 
the medium of that chaste enjoyment." (May 14, 1695,) *' Kiss in liberty 
this dear little brother, w^ho daily grows less to become one of us," &c. 

If you would have something more personal, notice the manner, truly 
very gentle, in which he repulses the tendernesses of that noble religeuse, 
whose sensual confidences he had declined to receive : " In truth I would 
not wish directly to excite the tendernesses of the heart; hut when they come 
either by themselves, or in the train of other dispositions," &c. '' I am 
not i?ise?isible, Heaven be thanked, to a certain correspondence of sentiments 
or of tastes." "But although I very strongly feel these correspondcTices,^^ 
&c. '* All that one feels relatively with me (par rapport H moi) is in truth, 
on the part of the other, nothing to me, and there need be no fear of my 
exposing myself." It would appear that the illustrious penitent was 
affrighted at his sentiments, and wished to take a director less affection- 



UNTRANSLATABLE MYSTICISM. 97 

which he wrote from his country seat of Germigny, July 10th, 
1692 ; and in which he explains the sense of the words of the 
Spouse : "Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love." 
That physician who should cure one passion by a stronger, 
would be marvellously apt to double the disease. 

What astonishes one more than these imprudences is, that 
you find frequently in the familiar correspondence of this great 
adversary of Gluietism the greater part of the sentiments and 
practical maxims with which he reproaches the Q,uietists. 
He developes carefully their favourite text : Expectans ex- 
pectavi. The soul (VEpouse) must not be eager, she must 
Harry in waiting what the Spouse (UEpoux) wills to do. If 
while waiting, he (VEpoux) caresses the soul, and urges her 
to caress him, the heart must be given up. The means of the 
union is the union itself. To leave the Divine Spouse to act 
(laissez faire) is all the sympathy (correspondance) on the 
part of the soul," (UEpouse,) 

" Jesus est admirable dans les chastes embrassements dont 
il honore son Epouse, et la rende feconde ; toutes les virtus 
sont le fruit de ses chastes embrassements." (Feb. 28, 1693.) 
" There should follow a change in the life — but without that 
change, the soul thinks only of being herself changed ^ 

The letter from which the last extract, thoroughly duietist, 
is made, was written May 30th, 1696 ; and eight days after- 
ward, melancholy inconsistency ! he writes the following in- 
human words respecting Madame Guyon : " They appear to 
me determined to shut her up, far from this, in a good cha- 
ieau,^^ etc.* 

How can one avoid perceiving that on the question of prac- 
tice, much more important than theory, he differs in nothing 

ate. He writes: *^ I forbid your adhering to the temptation to /ftire m<?, 
or belicvinjjj that one can be fatigued or wearied in directing you."— 
(Dec. 2G, urn.) 

♦ Works of Bossuct, XI. 380, and XIL 53, (1836.) 

9 



98 



PRACTICE VS. THEORY. 



from those he treats so iJl ? Direction, in Bossuet, as in his 
adversaries, is the development of the inert and passive parts 
of our nature. Expectans expectavi. 

It is to me a spectacle to see them all, from the depth 
even of the Middle Ages, cry out against the mystics, and 
fall into mysticism. It must be that the propensity is strong, 
irresistible. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the pro- 
found Rush rock and the great Gerson imitate exactly those 
whom they condemn. In the seventeenth, the duietists Bo- 
na, Fenelon, and even Lacombe himself, the director of Ma- 
dame Guyon, speak severely and harshly of absolute Gluietists. 
All point out the abyss — all fall into it. 

Persons are nothing here — there is in it a logical fatality. 
The man, who by his character and his genius is farthest from 
the passive paths : he, who in his writings has condemned 
them with most force, Bossuet, in his practice, walks in them 
with the rest. 

What imports it that they write against the theory of Qui- 
etism ? Quietism is far less a system than a method ; a me- 
thod of sloth and inertia which we always find, under some 
form or other, m spiritual direction. It serves no purpose to 
counsel activity, with Bossuet, or to permit it, with Fenelon, 
if, taking from the soul all exercise of its activity, and holding 
it as in leading strings, you deprive it of all habits of activity, 
and all taste, and strip it of all power to move. 

Although the soul has still the semblance of action, is not that 
an illusion, if that activity is not her own, but that of another, 
of Bossuet? You show me a person who walks. I 
know very well that she has that appearance, but I perceive 
that it is only because that you support her in it, as her 
principle of action, the cause and reason of her living, walk- 
ing, moving. There is always in the total the same sum of 
action, only in the dangerous connection of the director with 
the directed all the action comes from the first. There is, be- 



SYSTEMATIC NULLITY. 99 

tween them, only one active force, one will, one person ; the 
directed, losing by degrees every thing which constitutes a 
person, becomes what ? A thing. 

When Pascal, in his superb disdain for reason, invites us 
to stupify it, (abetir,) to put aside in us what he calls the 
automaton and the machine, he does not perceive that there 
will only be a change of our reason for that of another. Our 
reason having fitted herself with bit and bridle, the reason of 
another mounts, and rides, conducting her where the rider 
pleases. 

If the automaton preserved some motion, how did they 
guide it ? According to the probable doctrine. The probable- 
ism of the Jesuits prevailed in the first half of the century. 
Then, movement ceasing, the paralysed age learned Perfec- 
tion itself of the duietists. 

The weakness and impotence of the last years of the times 
of Louis XIV. ai^e a little concealed by the remnant of a hte- 
rary eclat. But this sluggishness was not the less profound. 
It was a natural consequence, not only of the great eiTorts 
which had caused exhaustion, but also of the theories of abne- 
gation, of impersonality, and systematic nulhty, which had 
always gained in that century. By the force of saying and 
repeating that one cannot walk unless sustained by another, 
there was raised up a generation who could walk no more at 
all, and who vaunted themselv^es, and made it a glory that 
they had forgotten the power of motion. Madame Guyon, in 
a letter to Bossuet, in speaking of herself, displays with force, 
how general was this condition. "You say, Monseigneur, 
that there are only four or five persons who are in this 
difilcuUy with regard to the performance of deeds, but I 
tell you there are more than a hundred thousand. When 
you direct me to (U'mand and to desire, 1 find myself in the con- 
dition of a paralytic, Avhom some one has directed to walk, 
because he has legs. The eflbrts which he might make for tliat 



100 QUIETIST AVOWALS. 

purpose would serve only to make him feel his impotence. 
They say, according to ordinary rules, all who have limbs 
can walk. I believe it ; I know it : yet I have limbs and 
cannot make them serve me."* 

* Letter of Feb. 10, 1694, Works of Bossuet, XIL 14, ed. 1839. Com- 
pare the melancholy avowals of Sister du Mans, ibid. XL 558, March 30, 
1695. See those of Fenelon, even, Nov. 8, 1700, Vol. I. 572, ed. of Di- 
dot, 1838. 



(101) 



CHAPTER X. 

The " GvAde*^ of Molinos. — Pai't which he played as Director, — Hypocritical 
austerity, — Immoral Doctrine. — Molinos approved at Rome, 1675. — Mo- 
linos condemned at Home, 1687. — His manners conformed to his Doc- 
trine, — The Spanish Molinosistas, — The Mother Jlgueda, 

For him who can no longer move himself — the poor para- 
lytic, — the greatest danger is not in his remaining without 
action, but of his becoming the puppet of an action not his 
own. The theories which say most of immobility are not 
always disinterested. Have a care ! Have a care ! 

The book of Molinos, artificial and premeditated, has a 
character which is altogether proper to him, and which dis- 
tinguishes it from the naive and inspired books of the great 
female mystics. These, such as Saint Theresa, often recom- 
mend obedience, distrust in one's self, and entire submission 
to the director. They gave themselves thus, a guide, but in 
their vigorous flight they carried the guide along with them. 
They thought to follow, but really led him. The director had 
nothing to do but to sanction their inspiration.* 

The originality of the book of Mohnos is entirely opposite 
to this. There the interior activity truly expires, there is 
nothing but foreign action. The director is the mainspring 

* Madame Guyoii herself, who has developed more than any other 
mystic the theory of the mystical death, is dead at her mouth, but always 
alive at the heart. Even in that ocean, " where the poor torrent is lost." 
it preserves its own life, and the sweetness of its waters — so great is its 
force — so powerful its shoot, — so high the mountain from which it falls! 
The Rhone pierces the length of its lake — that enormous mass of un- 
fathomal)le water-r-and in coming out is the Rhone still. At distant inter- 
vals, in all this, we find the director mcntiontid. But who directed such a 
torrent ? Poor Father Lacombc could not steer his own barcpic. The 
torrent carried him where ho floated — he became mad. 



102 MOLINOS AS DIRECTOR. 

of the whole book ; he re-appears at every instant, and even 
where he disappears, we feel that he is behind us. He is 
the guide, or rather the support, without whom the impotent 
soul could not make a single step. He is the doctor, always 
present, who decides whether the invalid may taste this or 
that. Invalid ? yes and thoroughly an invalid too, since it is 
necessary, every moment, that another shall think, feel, and 
act for her — in a word, live in her place. 

Can it be said that such a soul lives ? Is not this indeed 
the true death ? The great female mystics sought the spiritual 
death, and could not find it. Their living activity continued 
even in the sepulchre. To die only in God, to die there by 
his Avill and his energy, is certainly not to die utterly. But 
when by sluggishness one permits his soul to be swallowed 
in the vortex of another, submitting in a kind of half-sleep to 
the strange transformation by which your identity is absorbed 
in his — this is the true moral death. It is necessary to seek 
no other. 

" To act is the deed of the novice ; to suffer is already to 
have profited; to die is perfection. Advance in the dark, 
and you advance well ; the horse that walks bhndfold in the 
mill, grinds the grain all the better. Think not, read not. 
A practical master will inform you better than all the books, 
what it is necessary to do at the moment. It is a great secu- 
rity to have an experienced guide, who governs and directs 
us according to his actual light, and prevents us from being 
deceived by the devil, or by our own senses."* 

Molinos, conducting us gently by this road, appears to 
know very well where he is leading us. I judge by the in- 
finite precautions which he takes to give us confidence, by 
the notices which he posts everywhere along the way, of 

* Molinos, Spirihial Guide, passim. 



HYPOCRITICAL AUSTERITY. 103 

humility, austerity, excessive scruple, and prudence exagge- 
rated beyond prudence. The holy are not so wise. 

In a very humble preface, he believes that this little book, 
without ornament, without style, without a protector, can 
have no success. " It will be criticised, without doubt, and 
all will find it insipid." More humbly yet, on the last page 
he lays it at the feet of the Holy Roman Church, and submits 
it to her correction.* 

He gives us to understand that the true director becomes 
one, only against his wishes. " He is a man who would Avish 
to be dispensed from the. care of souls, who sighs and pants 
after solitude. He is, above all, far from seeking the direction 
of females ; they are generally too little prepared. It is es- 
sential that he avoid calling his penitent, Majille; it is an ex- 
pression too tender — God is jealous of it. Love itself, passion, 
that monster with seven heads, takes sometimes the form of 
gratitude and filial affection for the confessor. He should 
not go to visit his female penitents at their houses, not even 
in cases of sickness, unless he may be called^] 

Behold the astonishing severity, the excessive caution, un- 
known until the time of Molinos ! What a holy man is this ! 
It is true, that if the director ought not of himself to visit his 
penitent, he can, if she calls him. With such a spiritual di- 
rector, is she not always ill, embarrassed, fearful, unable to 
do any thing of herself? She sighs for him continually. All 
movements which are not from him may be from the devil, the 
very fibre of remorse which sometimes moves within her — 
may not that be a thread which the devil draws ?J 

* The celebrated book of Molinos is not very original. One can find 
few things there which are not superior in the other Quietists. Read, 
however, his enthusiastic eulogy on the spiritual extinguishment, of which 
Bossuet has translated some passages in Book III. of the Instructions on 
Prayer. 

t The Guide, Book IT. Chap. r>. 

X The Guide, Book II. Chap. 17. 



104 IIVrMORAL DOCTRINE. 

But when he is with her, on the contrary, what tranquilHty ! 
How he calms her with a word ! How he resolves all her 
scruples ! She is well recompensed for having done nothing 
of herself, for having waited and obeyed, for obeying always. 
She now feels fully that obedience is better than all other 
virtues. 

If she is discreet, he will conduct her still farther. " It is 
not necessary, if she sins, that she should disquiet herself on 
that account. If she torments herself respecting this, it will 
be an indication that she retains yet some of the leaven of 
pride. It is the devil, who, to check us in the spiritual way, 
occupies us thus with our own slips. Would it not be foolish 
in him who runs, to stop when he falls, and weep like a child, 
instead of pursuing his course ? These falls have the excellent 
effect of guarding us against pride, which is the greatest fall.. 
God makes virtues of our vices ; the very sins, hj which the 
devil counts to throw us into the abyss, will become a ladder 
by which we mount to heaven,^^* 

This doctrine was well received. Molinos had had the ad- 
dress to publish at the same time another book, which would 
serve as a passport for this — a Treatise on the Daily Com- 
munion, directed against the Jansenists, and the great work of 
Arnaud. The Spiritual Guide was examined with the favour 
that Rome would accord to the enemy of her enemies. There 
was hardly a religious order which did not approve it. The 
Roman Inquisition gave it three approvals, by three of its 
members, a Jesuit, a Carmelite, and the General of the Fran- 
ciscans. The Spanish Inquisition approved it twice, by the 
Examiner-General of the order of the Capuchins and by a 
Trinitarian, the Archbishop of Reggio. At the commence- 
ment of the book we find an enthusiastic and exalted eulogy 
of Molinos, by the Archbishop of Palermo. The Quietists 

* The Guide, Book II. Chap. 18. 



RECEPTION OF MOLINOS^ GUIDE. 105 

had then grown very strong at Rome, since one of them, 
Cardinal Bona, the protector of Malaval, was on the point of 
becoming Pope. 

But a great reverse took place, contrary to all expectation. 
The great Gallican tempest of 1682, which for nearly ten 
years interrupted the connection between France and the 
Holy See, and showed how easily a country could sever itself 
from Rome, compelled the Pope to raise the moral dignity of 
the pontificate by acts of severity. The blow fell especially 
upon the Jesuits and their friends. Innocent XI. passed a 
solemn condemnation upon the casuists ; a tardy condemnation 
upon people who had been killed twenty years before by 
Pascal. Gluietism was no more. The Franciscans and the 
Jesuits had taken it to their hearts. The Dominicans had 
opposed it. Mohnos, in his Manual, had very much depre- 
ciated the merits of St. Dominick, and pretended that St. 
Thomas, while dying, declared that he had never ivritten 
any thing good. Thus, of all the orders, that of the Domini- 
cans is the only one whose approbation was refused to the 
Guide of Mohnos. 

Examined under this new influence, the book and the 
author appeared horribly culpable. The Inquisition of Rome, 
without being checked by the approval which its examiners 
pronounced twelve years before, condemned the Guide. They 
furthermore condemned certain propositions, which they did 
not find in the book, but drew from the examinations of Moli- 
nos, or from his teaching. The following is not the least 
curious of these propositions : " God, to humiliate us, permits, 
in some perfect souls, (well awake and in their lucid state,) 
that the devil makes them commit against their will, acts, 
which without this possession would be culpable ; but there 
is no sin, because there is no consent. The case may even 
happen that this devilish possession may occur in the case of 
two persons, a man and a woman, at the same time." 



106 MOTHER AGUEDA. 

This case was encountered by Molinos himself much too 
often. He humiliated himself, and implored pardon for his 
morals, and did not attempt to defend his doctrine ; and this 
course saved him. The Inquisitors, who had at first approved 
the Guide, were not a little embarrassed among themselves 
with this examination. They treated him with gentleness, 
merely imprisoning him, while two of his disciples, who had 
only faithfully applied his doctrine, were without pity burned 
alive. One was a cure of Dijon, the other a priest of Tudela 
in Navarre. 

How can one be astonished that such a theory had these 
results in manners ? If it had not produced such consequences, 
that would have been a fact much more astonishing. For the 
rest, such things are not derived exclusively from the doctrine 
of Molinos, — an imprudent and too open doctrine which peo- 
ple are careful not to profess. The same mischiefs come 
naturally from any practical direction which puts the will into 
slumber, and deprives the person of this natural guardian, ex- 
posed to the mercy of him whose direction has produced the 
sleep. In the middle ages, the casuists coldly examined the 
question of the guilt of abusing a dead body. The case is 
reproduced here ; for the death of the will, no less than phy- 
sical death, leaves the person without defence. 

The Archbishop of Palermo, in his Pindaric eulogy on 
The Spiritual Guide, said it was a book admirably and very 
especially adapted to the direction of female devotees. This 
opinion was heard and put to profit, above all, in Spain. 
From the saying of Molinos, that "sins, being the occasion of 
humihty, serve as^ a ladder to ascend to heaven," the Moli- 
nosistas drew this reasonable deduction : The more one sins, 
the more one ascends. 

There was among the Carmelite nuns of Lerma a devotee, 
accounted a saint. Mother Agueda. People came to her from 
all the neighbouring country to obtain the cure of their mala- 



MOTHER AGUEDA. 107 

dies. A convent was founded in the place which had the 
honour of giving her birth. They placed her portrait, in re- 
verence, in the choir of the church. At the convent she 
healed those who were brought to her, by applying to them 
certain miraculous stones, which, it was stated, she brought 
forth, with all the pains of childbirth. These miracles en- 
dured twenty years. At length it became bruited that the 
births were more in the order of nature and less miraculous 
than had been supposed. The Inquisition of Logrogno made 
a descent upon the convent, arrested the Mother, and interro- 
gated the sisters of the convent, and, among them, the young 
niece of the saint. Dona Vincenta. She acknowledged, with- 
out hesitation, the commerce which her aunt, herself, and the 
other nuns had with the Provincial of the Carmelite friars, the 
Prior of Lerma, and others of high rank in their Orders. The 
Mother had given birth to five children, and her niece pointed 
out the place where they were killed and buried, as soon as 
born. The bones were found.* 

Not the least horrible circumstance is, that the young girl, 
cloistered at the age of nine years, submitted, by her aunt, 
while a child, to this strange life, having no other light, firm- 
ly beheved that she was in the devout path of perfection and 
sanctity ; and walked in that way in all confidence in the 
honour of her confessors. 

The great teacher of these nuns was the Provincial of the 
Carmehtes, Jean de la Vega. He wrote the hfe of the saint, 
and arranged her miracles for her. It was he who had the 
address to make her a saint, feted, and glorified, while she 
was still hving. He was himself almost a saint in the opinion 
of the people. The monks everywhere said, that since the days 



* When "The Monk" of Lewis appeared, in 17%, it was little expected 
that this terrible ronianco would be surpassed by a real history. Yet such 
is the case in Llorentc's History ol' the Inquisition. 



108 JEAN DE LA VEGA. 

of the ever-blessed Jean de la Croix, there had not been in 
Spain a man so austere and penitent as he. According to the 
custom of designating illustrious Doctors by a surname, such 
as the Angelic, the Seraphic, he was called the Ecstatic. 
Stronger than the Mother, he survived the torture, while she 
died there. He confessed nothing, except that he had re- 
ceived the money for twelve thousand eight hundred masses 
which he had never celebrated ; and he was disposed of by 
beinof sent to the convent De Duruelo, 



(109) 



CHAPTER XL 

No More Systems, — ^n Emblem, — The Sacred Heart, — 3Iarie Macoque, — 
Equivoque of the Sacred Heart. — The Seventeenth Century is the Century 
of Equivoque, — Chimerical Policy of the Jesuits, — Father La Colombiere 
and Marie Alacoque, 1675. — Papist Conspiracy in England. — First 
Mtar of the Sacred Hearty 1685. — Ruin of the Gallicans^ 1693. — Of the 
QuietistSj 1698. — Of Port Royal, 1709. — Theology of Annihilation in the 
Eighteenth Century, — Jesuit Art, 

Q.UIETISM, SO much accused of obscurity, had been only too 
clear. It had erected into a system, and stated with frankness 
as the supreme perfection, the state of immobility and help- 
lessness to which the soul arrives at length when it renounces 
its activity. 

Was it not simplicity to write so distinctly that doctrine of 
inanition — to make so much noise about a theory of slumber ? 
Talk not so loud, if you wish people to sleep ! See how the 
instinct indicated in that caution guided theologians who were 
at the same time men of business. They cared nothing about 
theology, they wished only for results. 

It is proper to do the Jesuits the justice to acknowledge 
that, at bottom, they were sufficiently indifferent to speculative 
opinions. We have seen that after Pascal's Letters the 
Jesuits themselves wrote against their own casuistry. Then 
they essayed Gluietism. For a moment they permitted Fene- 
lon to beheve that they would sustain him. But, from the 
moment that Louis XIV. said, " they are making a plunge,"* 
the Jesuits preached against their friend, and discovered forty 
errors in his Maxims of the Saints, 

The Jesuits never had much success in becoming thcolo- 

* Bossuet, Leiter of March 30, 1697. 
10 



110 NO MORE SYSTEMS. 

gians. With silence they throve better than with all the 
systems. They induced the Pope to impose silence, at the 
commencement of the century, upon the Dominicans, and then 
afterwards upon the Jansenists. After this their affairs suc- 
ceeded better. It was just at the moment when they had 
ceased to write (1687) that they obtained from the invalid 
king the list of benefits in his gift. Thus they became, to the 
astonishment of the GalKcans, who had believed themselves 
victors, — the kings of the clergy of France. 

No more opinions, no more systems ! They were weary 
of them. We have already noted the fatigue which had for 
a long time prevailed. There is a point, it may be re- 
marked, in long Hves, whether of men, of states, or of religions, 
where, having run from project to project, and from dream to 
dream, all thought becomes odious. In these profoundly 
material moments nothing is desired which is not tangible. 
Do people become exact and positive ? No. But the age can 
return no more to the symbols which it adored in youth. The 
old dotard in second childhood seeks rather some new fetish — 
some palpable and manageable idol. The more gross it is, 
the better it succeeds. 

This explains the prodigious success with which the Jesuits 
spread and made acceptable, at this time of lassitude, a new 
object of worship — very carnal, very material — the Heart of 
Jesus, shown by the open wound in his side, or torn and 
bleeding. 

There was very nearly the same thing in the decrepitude 
of paganism. Religion took refuge in the taurobolium, in the 
bloody Mithraic expiation, in the worship of blood. 

At the grand fete of the Sacred Heart, which the Jesuits 
gave in the last century, in the Coliseum at Rome, they struck 
a medal, with a device worthy of the solemnity : " It was 
given to feed the people in the amphitheatre of Titus."* 

* In 1774. Des Sacres CoBurs, by Tabaraud. 



THE SACRED HEART. Ill 

What a great advantage does the substitution of an emblem, 
a mute sign, for systems, give the friends of obscurity ! No 
equivoque expressed in words can compare, for producing 
indecision and confusion of ideas, with a material object which 
takes a thousand meanings. The old Christian symbols, so 
much had they been explained and translated, presented to 
the mind, wherever they were seen, a signification too clear. 
They are the grave symbols of death and of self-denial. The 
new emblem was more obscure. Bleeding, it is true, but 
carnal and passionate, it spoke less of death than of life. The 
heart palpitates, the blood reeks, and it is a living man, who, 
with his hands showing his wounds, invites us by signs to 
come and sound the ghastly aperture in his bosom. 

The heart ! This word, alone, has always been powerful. 
The organ of the affections, the heart expresses them in its 
own manner, — it swells, it labours with the sigh. The strong 
and perplexed life of the heart comprehends and mingles all 
loves. Such a word bears wonderfully in a language the 
double meaning. Who could best comprehend it ? The 
women, for with them the heart is all. The heart has been 
the subject of the great modern devotion for nearly two hun- 
dred years. Another subject occupied, during two hundred 
years, the thought of the middle ages. 

It was a strange thing that in that era of spiritualism a 
long discussion, public, solemn, took place in all the schools, 
the churches, the pulpits of Europe, upon a subject of which 
no one ventures now to speak, except in the schools of Medi- 
cine. That subject was — the Conception!^ Let one ima- 
gine to himself all these Monks, people vowed to celibacy, 
Dominicans, Franciscans, boldly pursuing this subject, teach- 
ing it to everybody ; preaching anatomy to children and little 
girls, and occupying their minds with the most secret mys- 

* See among other books, that of Gravois: Dc Ortu ct Progressu cul- 
tufl Immacululi concoptus, 17G4. 4to. 



in MARIE ALACOQUE. 

teries, with most disgusting detail, impossible to quote, and 
hardly fit to refer to. 

But the Heart has the advantage of furnishing a crowd of 
expressions of a doubtful sense — a whole language of tender 
equivoques, which may be heard and uttered without blush- 
ing, and which facilitate the artifices of devout gallantry. 

In the commencement of the seventeenth century the di- 
rectors and confessors found in the Sacred Heart a convenient 
subject. But the women took it up in all seriousness. They 
soared into the exaltation of passion, and were visited with 
visions. The Virgin appeared to a peasant of Normandy, 
and ordered him to adore the Heart of the Mary,^ The 
Visitandines instituted sisterhoods of the Heart of Jesus, The 
sisters of the Visitandines did not fail to see the Divine 
Spouse in visions. Marie Alacoque saw the Sacred Heart 
and the bleeding wound. 

She was a strong girl, very sanguine, from whom they 
were obliged incessantly to take blood. She entered the con- 
vent at twenty-four years of age, with strong passions. Her 
infancy had not been enervated with confinement, as it hap- 
pens to those who are shut up at an early age. Her devotion 
was outright ardent love, which made her willing to suffer for 
the loved object. Having heard that Madame Chantal im- 
printed on her heart, with a hot iron, the name of Jesus, she 
did the same thing. Her imagination, in answer to this de- 
votion, represented the Divine Lover as not insensible to it, 
and he visited her. It was with the knowledge, and under 
the direction of a clever superior, that M'Ue Alacoque had 
these intimate interviews with the Divine Spouse. She cele- 
brated her espousals with him, a regular marriage contract 

* Eudes, brother of Mezerai, founder of the Eudestes, wrote the life of 
that peasant, and was the true founder of the new worship of the Sacred 
Heart. The Jesuits took up the thing, and profited by it. (See Tahar- 
and.) I have sought in vain for the manuscript work of Eudes in all the 
libraries. It has been made to disappear. 



MARIE ALACOQUE. 113 

was drawn up by the superior, and M'lle Alacoque signed it 
with her blood. One day, when she had, says her bio- 
grapher, taken up with her tongue the eructations of a sick 
woman, she was permitted to place her lips to one of the 
Divine wounds.* 

In all this there was nothing of theology. M'lle Alacoque 
was a girl of ardent temperament, who magnified celibacy. 
There was nothing of the mystic in her, in the proper sense 
of the term. Happier than Madame Guyon, who never saw 
him whom she loved, she saw and touched the body of the 
Divine Lover. The heart which he showed her in his open 
breast was a bleeding muscle. The extreme plethora of 
blood from which she suffered, and which frequent bleedings 
could not relieve, filled her imagination with visions of blood. 

The Jesuits, the grand propagators of this new devotion, 
were very cautious not to explain precisely whether they in- 
tended to render homage to a symbohcal heart, a celestial 
love, or to adore the heart of flesh. When pressed to ex- 
plain, they replied differently, according to persons, times, 
and places. One of their order. Father Gahffet, made two 
different replies at the same moment. At Rome, he said that 
he intended the symbohcal heart ; at Paris, he printed that 
there was no metaphor in the matter: that he adored the 
very flesh.t 

* No legend is more carefully collected than this. Vide Languet, 
Gnliffet, and others. 

The translator has shuddered at the impiety, and has been shocked at 
the awful and disgusting repulsiveness of many passages which have pre- 
ceded, and many which will follow this ; and he has endeavoured in ren- 
dering to avoid every thing which could be avoided, and still preserve 
something like a picture, though confessedly a faint one, of the original. 
On the other hand, a fearless exposure of the iniquity of substituting man's 
inventions—horribleinvcntions— forChristianity, Is due alike to the subject 
and to the argument of the author. For further remarks sec preface. 

t The two replies may be read on pages 35 and 73 of Tabaraud Dts 
S acres Cceurs. 

10* 



114 EQUIVOQUE. 

The equivoque made the fortune of the new worship. In 
less than forty years, there were formed in France four hun- 
dred and twenty-eight confreries of the Sacre Coeur. I can- 
not avoid pausing a moment to admire the triumph of equi- 
voque through this whole century. 

On whatever side I look, I find it : everywhere, in all 
things and all persons. The equivoque is on the throne, with 
Madame Maintenon, seated near the king, while princesses 
stand before her, — ^is she a queen, or is she not ? The equi- 
voque is near the throne, in that humble Father La Chaise, 
true king of the clergy of France, who, from a garret at Ver- 
sailles, distributes benefices. Our Galileans, so lo)^al; the 
Jansenists, so scrupulous, do they abstain from equivoque ? 
Obedient, and rebellious ; making war upon their knees, they 
kiss the foot of the Pope, while they strive to tie his hands ; 
they spoil their better reasons by the " distinguo^^ and their 
false colours. 

In truth, when I put in contrast with the sixteenth and 
eighteenth centuries, this Janus-faced seventeenth, the two 
first mentioned seem to me very honest centuries ; they were 
sincere, at least, in their good and in their evil. But the 
seventeenth, with its majestic harmony, how it covers over and 
conceals things false and foul ! All is sweetened, made gen- 
tler in its appearance, but at the bottom is often worse. To 
replace the local inquisitions, you have the police of the Je- 
suits, armed with the power of the king. For one St. Bar- 
tholomew, you have the long, the immense rehgious revolu- 
tion, which is called the Revocation of the Edict of Nantz, 
that cruel comedy of forced conversions ; and then the un- 
heard-of tragedy of a proscription, organized by all the mili- 
tary and bureaucratic means of a modern government. Bos- 
suet chants the triumph. Falsehood, artifice, misery, are 
everywhere visible : the false in pohtics, the local life de- 
stroyed, without the creation of a central ; the false in man- 



POLICY OF THE JESUITS. 115 

ners— ^that polite court, that world of honest people, unex- 
pectedly received one day in the chamber of poisons, the 
king suppressing the process, lest he should find them all 
culpable !* And devotion, how could that be true amid such 
manners? If you reproach the sixteenth century with its 
violent fanaticism, and if the eighteenth appears to you cyni- 
cal and without respect for humanity, acknowledge also that 
falsehood, art, and hypocrisy are the ruling features of the 
seventeenth. The great historian, Moliere, has drawn the 
portrait of the age, and found its name — Tartuffe. 

To return to the Sacred Heart. In truth, in speaking 
of equivoque, we can hardly be said to have made a digression 
from it, since it is in this era the illustrious and ruling example 
of equivoque. The Jesuits generally have invented little ; 
they did not discover this, but they saw at a glance, when it 
appeared, the profit that might be drawn from it. We have 
seen how, by degrees, all the time professing that they did 
not regard female convents, they rendered themselves masters 
of them. The Visitation was especially under their influ- 
ence. t The superior of Marie Alacoque, who possessed her 
confidence and directed her communications with the Divine 
Spouse, early advised Father La Chaise. 

The thing had come to a point. The Jesuits had need of 
a popular machine, which they could work for the advance- 
ment of their policy^ It was at this moment that they be- 
lieved that England — at least so they said to the king — sold 
by Charles II., was ready for open and entire conversion. 
Intrigue, money, and women were all employed. To king 

* All this will appear in the important publication relative to the prisons 
of the State, prepared by M. Ravaisson, the elder, of the Library of the 
Arsenal. 

t To such an extent, that the Visitandincs, the children of the good St. 
Francis, made themselves, for the Jesuits, the guardians and jailers ot 
the female inmates of Port Royal, at the time of their dispersion. 



116 CONSPIRACY IN ENGLAND. 

Charles they gave mistresses — to his brother, confessors. 
The Jesuits who, in their knavery, are often chimerical, be- 
lieved, that in gaining over five or six noblemen, they were 
about to change all that protestant mass — protestant, not from 
belief only, but from interest and habits of Hfe — protestant at 
the heart, and with EngHsh tenacity. 

See then these great politicians, stealing along with the 
pace of a wolf, and imagining that they were going to carry 
their purpose by surprise. An essential point with them was 
to place near the king's brother, James, a secret preacher, who, 
in his private chapel, might attempt some conversions. To 
fill this part, a man, fascinating, and, above all, ardent and 
fanatical, was necessary, but such men were not then common. 
The young man whom La Chaise had in view lacked fanati- 
cism and ardour. It was one La Colombiere, who taught 
rhetoric in the Jesuit's College, at Lyons. An agreeable 
preacher,* an elegant writer, a good subject, sweet and docile, 
there needed in his character to serve the Jesuits only a httle 
madness. To give him that, they approached him with 
M'lle Alacoque. He was sent to Paray-lemonial, where she 
was, as confessor extraordinary of the Jesuits, in 1675. He 
was twenty-four years of age, she twenty-eight. Thoroughly 
prepared by her superior, she recognised in him the great 
servant of God, who had been promised her in her visions. 
From the first da,j she saw in the Sacred Heart., her heart 
united to that of the Jesuit. 

La Colombiere, of a gentle and weak nature, was carried, 
without resistance, into this whirlwind of passion and fanati- 
cism. They kept him a year and a half in this furnace. 
Then, all glowing, they tore him from Paray, and threw him 
into England. They were still a httle distrustful of him, and 

* His sermons are feeble. His Retraites Spirituelles are more curious. 
It is the journal of a young Jesuit endeavouring to exalt his spirit into 
fanaticism, which, one perceives, had already become difficult. 



EFFECT OF COLOMBIERE's MISSION. 117 

fearing that he might cool, from time to time, they sent him 
some ardent and inspired lines, which Marie Alacoque dic- 
tated, and her superior wrote. 

La Columbiere remained two years in England, at the resi- 
dence of the Duchess of York, so completely concealed and 
carefully shut up that he never even saw London. They 
mysteriously conducted to him certain of the nobihty who 
thought it would be serviceable to themselves to be converted 
to the religion of the brother of the king, the heir presumptive. 
England having at length detected this Popish conspiracy, 
La Columbiere was accused, brought before Parliament, and 
sent back to France. He returned ill, and his managers sent 
him to Paray to see if the nun could restore him, but he died 
there of fever. 

However little we may be disposed to believe in great re- 
sults from insignificant causes, we cannot help acknowledging 
that the miserable intrigue of which we have spoken had 
upon France and the world an incalculable effect. The poli- 
ticians wished to gain England, and approached her, not by 
the Galileans, whom she esteemed, but by the Jesuits whom 
she abhorred. At the very moment when the Romish Church 
owed it to herself, as a matter of prudence at least, to remove 
the idolatries with which the Protestants reproached her, she 
added a new one, of a sickening character, the carnal and 
sensual devotion of the Sacred Heart. To mingle horror and 
farce, in 1685, the year sadly memorable of the Revocation 
of the Edict of Nantz, Marie Alacoque dressed the first of the 
altars which cover all France. We have noticed how Eng- 
land, confirmed by the Jesuits in Protestantism and horror of 
Rome, obtained a king from Holland, and, thus connecting 
Holland with herself by the union of these two maritime 
powers, obtained the dominion of the seas. The Jesuits may 
boast of having solidly established Protestantism in England 
All the arguments in the world cannot change that fact. 



.118 EXTINGUISHMENT OF THE JANSENISTS. 

Their political work, as we have thus seen, was important. 
It abetted the marriage of England and Holland, and killed 
France. 

In their religious work, what did they effect in France 
during the last days of Louis XIV. ? What was the last 
employment of the powerful La Chaises and Telliers ? It 
was the destruction of Port Royal — a military expedition to 
capture fifteen old women, drag the dead from the earth, and 
commit sacrilege by the warrant of Jesuit authority.* That 
dying authority, which, in the terrible year of 1709, seemed 
to overpower the throne and the kingdom, they exerted in 
haste, to destroy their enemies.t 

Port Royal was extinguished in 1709; duietism had 
reached its end in 1698, and even Gal hcanism, the great royal 
religion, had been laid at the feet of the Pope, by the King, 
in 1693. Bossuet rests in the tomb by the side of Fenelon, 
and not far from them reposes Arnaud. Victors and van- 
quished, all sleep in the common silence of the tomb. 

The emblem prevailing, and taking the place of all system, 
the need of analysing, of explaining, and of thinking even, 

* See the detail in the Historical Memoirs of Port Royal, (1756,) and in 
the General History, (1757.) 

t The Jesuits pursue them with rage even now, especially those sisters 
whom they suspect of Jansenism. The Jansenists wish to suffer and die 
in silence, and do not desire that we complain for them. But history can- 
not associate itself with martyrs in this resignation. History will mention, 
as a fact most curious and little known, the excellent Review {Revue Ec- 
clesiastique, rue St. Severin) which the Jansenists publish in a small edi- 
tion for themselves. In that they reply with force and moderation to the 
ill-timed declamations which Pere Ravignan made in St. Severin, (1842,) 
against Port Royal. In that they expose ultramontane novelties, which 
the Jesuit preaches. Who could have beUeved that while persecuting and 
outraging the Jansenists, the Jesuit party would have dared (in the Cham- 
ber of Peers) to claim the renown of illustrious Jansenists as theirs — that 
of RoUin for example ! Are they the heirs of those whom they j 
sinate ? 



ANNIHILATION OF REASON. Il9 

grew less and less. Upon this the Jesuits felicitated them- 
selves. The explanation presumed was always that most fa- 
vourable to the Jesuits — ^that is to say, deference to liberty of 
the mind. In the shadow of an obscure emblem they can 
sleep, without making formularies and giving their opponents 
a chance to seize them. They apply, with indifference, the 
practical rules of all abandoned theories, following and con- 
curring in them according to the interest of the hour. 

Wise policy — ^beautiful wisdom, which conceals its own 
nothingness. But in dispensing others from the duty of rea- 
soning, they lost the capacity themselves ; and in the day of 
peril they were without arms. The great polemical contest 
of the last century found them mute. Voltaire discharged a 
hundred thousand arrows without waking them. Rousseau 
crushed and bruised them, without drawing from them a word 
in reply. 

Who could answer? Theology was ignored by theolo- 
gians.* The persecutors of the Jansenists mingle up, in the 
books published in the name of Marie Alacoque, Jansenist 
and Molinist opinions, as if they had never disputed them.t 
They wrote, in 1708, the Manual, which has been since 
adopted as the basis of instruction in our seminaries ; and this 
manual contains the entirely new doctrine, that at each new pa- 
pal decision the Pope is inspired by Heaven to decide, and the 
bishops are inspired to obey. All is oracidar or miraculous 
under this gross system : reason was completely extinguished 
by theology. There was little dogmatism from that time, 
aifid less of sacred history. Teaching would have been a nul- 

* This ignorance is singularly apparent even now. What a curious 
spectacle to see a man rise before the highest ecclesiastical authority and 
solemnly deliver a sermon which is one heresy I'roni beginning to end. 
The adversaries of their theology are the only persons whom the Jesuits 
appear to remember. 

t Tabaraud Dcs Sacres Ccnurs. 



120 EFFICACIOUS MEDAL. 

lity, if the old casuistry had not come in to fill up the void 
with immoral subtleties. 

The world to which the Jesuits have for a long time ad- 
dressed themselves — that of women — is the world of sensibili- 
ty. Nothing of science is necessary there — impressions are 
desired rather than ideas. The less the mind is occupied 
with ideas, the easier is it to shut it up from the world with- 
out, and to keep it ignorant of the progress of the times. 

In a path where sanctity consists in destroying the mind, 
the more material is the worship, the better is that purpose 
answered. The more the mind is weakened and lowered, 
.the higher it becomes. Make salvation depend upon the 
exercise of the moral virtues, and you make the exercise of 
reason necessary. But what need have we of reason ? Wear 
this medal, " it will efface your crimes."* Reason would 
still have a share in Religion, if it was necessary, as Reason 
teaches us absolutely to love God ; but Marie Alacoque has 
seen that it is sufficient not to hate him. The devotees of the 
Sacred Heart are saved without condition. 

When the Jesuits were suppressed, they had in their hands 
no religious means except those of Paganism, and there they 
place their hopes of resuscitation. They have made stamps 
with this motto : " I will give them the shield of my Heart." 

The Popes, who at first were uneasy at the opening which 
such materialism gave to the attacks of the philosophers,t are 
better advised in our days. Materialism may be very useful 
in addressing a world which reads very little philosophy, and 
which, to be devout, need not be the less material. Rome 

* The medal of the Immaculate Conception, made under the auspices 
of M. de Quelen, has already saved assassins and other criminals. See 
the Notice by a Lazarist, and the passages which are cited from it by M. 
Genin, Les Jesuites et V Universite. 

t Lambertini, Be Servorum Dei beatijlcatione. One is pained to see a 
man of mind and sense labour and strain to be only one-half absurd. 



IDOLATRY. 121 

has therefore retained the precious equivoque of the ideal 
heart and the heart of flesh. We have forbidden any ex- 
pUcation of the question whether the words Sacred Heart 
designate the love of God for man, or a piece of bleeding 
flesh.* By reducing the thing to an idea, they would deprive 
it of the passionate attraction which has given it success. In 
the last century, some of the bishops advanced a step further, 
declaring that the flesh itself is the principal object in this 
worship, and they even placed it in certain hymns, after the 
Trinity, as a fourth person J 

Priests, women, young girls, have vied with each other in 
this devotion to the Sacred Heart. I have in my hands a 
manual, widely circulated throughout the country, in which 
members of the confreries are taught that, praying each for 
the others, they associate their hearts, and these united hearts 
"should desire to enter into the aperture of the heart of 
Jesus, and bury themselves incessantly in that affectionate 
wound." 

The confreries in their manuals have sometimes been gal- 
lant enough to put the heart of Mary above that of Jesus. 
(See that of Nantz, 1709.) Generally, in these pictures, she 
is younger than her son. She is twenty, for example, and he 
thirty, so that, at the first glance, he seems less a son than a 
husband or a lover. This year, even, at Rouen, in St. Owen, 
in the chapel of the Sacred Heart, I saw a design which some 
young girls had made with a pen, and which is approved by 
the ecclesiastical authority — Jesus on his knees before tho 
virgin ! 

The strongest satire of the Jesuits is that which they have 
published of themselves, in the pictures and statues inspired 
by thL'ir spirit. Their taste has been wittily characterized 

* Pius VI. condemned the council of Pistoin, wliicli had attomptod to 
draw the distinction. 

11 



122 JESUIT ART. 

by the severe sayinsf of Poussin, whose painting of Christ 
did not please them: "An artist cannot imagine a Christ with 
the visage of a wry necky or of Father Douillet ;^'' and yet 
Poussin saw the taste of the Jesuits for the arts in its better 
days. What would he have said if he could have seen what 
has followed — that decrepit coquetry which multiplies smiles, 
grimaces, leers, and dying eyes ! The worst is, that those 
who have no other idea than the flesh, know not how to re- 
present it. The idea becomes more and more inane and 
material. Form is effaced, and from picture to picture the fall 
increases — ignoble, foppish, lascivious, leering, dull, expres- 
sionless !* 

Like art, like men. It is difficult to augur well of the 
souls of those who inspire such art, recommend such pictures, 
put them everywhere in their churches, and circulate them 
by thousands and millions. Such a taste is a grave sign. 
Many immoral people retain still some sense of the beautiful. 
But the souls of those must be of the basest, who dwell 
wilhngly on the ignoble and the false. 

One truth strikes us here, which all must recognise. It is 
that Art is the only thing inac<:essible to falsehood. Son of 
the heart, of sincere inspiration, it endures no alliance with 
falsehood. It will not permit itself to be violated ; and if the 
False triumphs, it dies. Every thing else the Jesuits imi- 
tated and played with. They could make a theology for the 
sixteenth, and a moraHty for the seventeenth century ; but an 



* In 1834, occupied with Christian iconography, I went through the 
pictures of Christ in the Royal Library. Those published during the 
last thirty years are the most humiliating things I have ever seen for art, 
and for human nature. Every man, believer or philosopher, who has 
preserved any sentiment of religion, must feel indignant. All impro- 
prieties, sensualities, and base passions are there — the pale young student, 
the licentious priest, the robust cure, who looks d, la Maingrat. The en- 
graver must have done his work with a pointed stick, in the sand. 



JESUIT ART. 123 

art — Never ! They could counterfeit the Holy and the Just : 
—How counterfeit the Beautiful ? Thou art ugly, poor Tar- 
tuffe ! Ugly must thou remain ! It is thy badge. Aim 
ever at the beautiful — thou canst never reach it. That would 
be impiety above all impiety. The Beautiful is the aspect 
of the Deity. 

Note by the Translator. The argument in the last paragraph is 
more than a Uttle specious. The theology of the Jesuits, by the author's 
own showing, was as far from true theology, and their morality as far from 
true morahiy, as their pictures (bad enough no doubt) are from an edu- 
cated man's idea of beauty. The Jesuits simulate art quite as well as 
they do Theology or Morality. Reformers discovered the counterfeits 
and exposed them. The paintings under notice follow naturally (as 
Michelet has shown in this same connection) from corrupted hearts : how 
then does he say that there is a better imitation in the one case than the 
other ? The pictures and images are part of the machinery of corruption, 
and answer their purpose better, no doubt, than if they were gems of art. 



PART SECOND. 



OF DIRECTION IN GENERAL, AND PARTICULARLY IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 



CHAPTER I. 

Resemblances and Differences between the seventeenth and nineteenth Centu* 
ries. — Christian art. — It is we who have raised up the Church. — What it 
adds to the Power of the Priest. — The Confessional, 

Two objections may be made against what I am about to 
say. 1 will relate them. 

First. " The examples are taken from the seventeenth cen- 
tury: a time in which direction was influenced by theological 
questions, which now engage the attention of neither the 
world nor the church : for instance — the question of Grace, and 
of the Will — the question of Quietism, or of repose in love.'' I 
have replied in advance to this. These questions are obsolete, 
dead, if you please, as theories ; but in spirit and the methodi- 
cal practice derived from those theories, they are, and always 
will be living. We shall no longer find speculative persons 
simple enough to frame a doctrine of sleep and moral annihi- 
lation ; but we shall always find quacks enough to practice 
the art of the Quietisis. If this is not clear enough, I will, in a 
moment, throw more light upon it, than will be desired. 

Second. Another difiiculty. "Are the examples which you 
draw from the books and letters of the great men in a great age, 
conclusive for our own ? Have not those profound and sub- 
tle spirits who carried so far the science of the government of 
souls, given it thus with a subtlety, of which the vulgar herd 

11* 125 



126 MEDIOCRE PRIESTS. 

of confessors and directors cannot even have an idea ? What 
have you to fear like it, from the poor and simple priests 
whom we now have ? Where are, I ask you, our holy Fran- 
cis of Sales, ourBossuets, our Fenelons ? Do you not perceive, 
that the clergy no longer not only does not contain in its 
ranks men of such genius, but that it has generally, and as a 
class, become lowered ? The great majority of the priests, 
spring from the families of peasants. Even the peasant who 
is not poor, finds it convenient to ease his family by placing a 
son in the seminary. The first education, that which is re- 
ceived from parents before all other education, is totally want- 
ing to him. The seminary does not repair this inconvenience 
of his origin and original condition. If we are to judge from 
those who have come from the hands of the Sulpicians, Lazar- 
ists, &c., we shall be tempted to believe that there is, among 
the leaders, a party who purposely send out priests of medi- 
ocre mind, and therefore the more dependant and blind in their 
obedience to the impulses (against their own real interests) 
which they have received in their education. What then do 
you fear ? Is not this intellectual abasement of the clergy an 
assurance to you. How will they follow in the confessional 
and direction the learned tactics of the priests of former times } 
The dangers which you dread are imaginary." 

It is easy to reply. 

Distinction of mind, great cultivation, are not so necessary 
as is thought, to govern souls which are willing to be ruled. 
Authority, character, the place, costume, give strength to the 
priest, and supply in him that which is wanting in the man. 
It is less by skill than by consequences and perseverance, that 
he obtains an ascendancy. If his mind is but slightly culti- 
vated, he is less distracted by the variety of new ideas which 
unceasingly traverse us men of modern times — amuse and fa- 
tigue us. He has fewer ideas, views, and projects, but one in- 
terest, one end, and that always the same ; which he follows 
up unceasingly ; the sure means of obtaining it. 



CHARACTER OF PEASANT PRIESTHOOD. 127 

Will it be said that because a man is a peasant he has the 
less art ? Peasants are prudent people, frequently full of as- 
tuteness, of an indefatigable constancy in following up some 
small interest. See how many years, what different methods, 
methods frequently oblique, one of them will employ to add 
two feet to his land. Do you think that his son Monsieur 
the cure, will be less, patient, less ardent in gaining a soul, in 
influencing woman, in entering a family ? 

These peasant races have frequently a certain tartness, which 
belongs to the blood, to the temperament, which gives them 
ingenuity. Those of the Soutft especially, from whence the 
clergy make their principal recruits, furnish intrepid speak- 
ers who have no need of knowledge, and who, from their very 
ignorance, are perhaps in more direct affinity with the simple 
persons whom they address. They speak loudly, boldly, and 
strongly ; well-informed persons would be more reserved, less 
fitted to fascinate the weak ; they would not dare to attempt 
so boldly, a coarse magnetism in spiritual matters. > 

Here, I should confess, that there is a great difference be- 
tween our century and the seventeenth, in which the clergy of 
all parties were so cultivated. That cultivation, those vast 
studies, that great theological and literary activity, were for the 
priests then, the most powerful distraction in the midst of 
temptation — science, or at least controversy and dispute, creat- 
ed for him, in a situation frequently very worldly, a kind of 
solitude, an alihi — if we may so speak, which preserved him 
— and how much need of virtue have ours, who have nothing 
of all that ; who spring from strong and material races, and 
who do not know how to employ this embarrassing force. 

The great men from whom we constantly adduce our ex- 
amples, had a marvellous defence against spiritual and carnal 
concupiscence, or what is better than defence, wings, which in 
a critical moment raised them from the earth above tlie reach 
of temptation. By these wings I mean, the love of God, the 



128 CLERGY OF FRANCE. 

love which genius has of itself; its natural effort to remain 
high and to ascend, the horror which it has of descending. 

The chiefs of the clergy of France, the only one which was 
then alive responsible to the world, which drew its faith 
from them — they had a courage equal to this great part. A 
single thought was the guardian of their life, a thought which 
they repressed, but which none the less sustained them in their 
delicate trials — it was, that in them dwelt the church. 

Their great experience, both of the world and the inward 
life,* that skillful management of men and things, far from 
weakening morality, as might be believed, rather aided it with 
them, by putting them in a position always to perceive and 
foresee perils, to see their enemy approaching ; and, by not 
giving him the advantage of unforeseen attacks, to know how 
at least to elude him. Thus it was that Bossuet arrested at 
once the soft confidence of a weak nun. The little which we 
have said of the direction of Fenelon, shows sufficiently how 
the dangerous director glided among the dangers. 

Those persons eminently spiritual, could pursue during 
long years between heaven and earth, that tender dialectics 
of the love of God. Is such the case now with people who 
have no wings, who walk and do not fly ? Incapable of pur- 
suing those ingenious circuits by which passion sported, 
eluding itself, do they not incur the danger of falling at the 
first step ? 

I know well that by the absence of that early education, of 
which we but now spoke, vulgarity or awkwardness fre- 
quently raise a barrier between the priest and a delicate 
woman. Many things, however, which would not be per-* 
mitted in another, are regarded as meritorious in him. His 

* There is another difference between them and the clergy of our day. 
These latter understand neither precedents nor varieties, nor times nor 
persons. Whenever they leave their underhand dealing, they become dis- 
gusting, rude, and violent ; they strike at random ; they fall upon the passer 
by, who is forced to combat them. 



NOTRE DAME. 129 

Stiffness is austerity ; his awkwardness the simplicity of a 
holy man who has lived in a desert. Other and more indul- 
gent rules are applied to him than to a layman. He derives 
advantage from his character, costume, the place, and that 
mysterious church which lends a poetic reflection even to 
the most vulgar. 

Who has given them this last advantage ? Ourselves. It 
is we who, in our candor, have raised up, rebuilt the churches 
which they in some sort forgot. The priest raised St. Sulpice 
and other piles of stones ; the laiiy have discovered for him 
Notre Dame, St. Ouen. They have shown him the Chris- 
tian spirit in living stones,^' and he has not perceived it; they 
have taught it to him, and he has not comprehended it. — And 
how long has the mistake lasted ? Not less than forty years, 
ever since the appearance of the " Genius of Christianity.'^^ 
The priest was unwilling to believe us, when we explained to 
him this sublime house; he did not recognize it. Why are 
you astonished? It only belongs to those who have under- 
stood it.| 

* Allow me to be permitted to recall, against many silly attacks, two 
things which I have done for the art of the past age. 1st. I have explain- 
ed the principle and the life, which my illustrious predecessors in this ca- 
reer, neither Germans nor French have done ; 2d. / have explained its 
ruin, indicated the causes of decay which this art carried in itself. I have 
admired it, but I have disposed of it without allowing myself to be carried 
away by an exclusive admiration. See my History of France, (1833,) in 
the last chapter of the second volume, and particularly in the last ten pages. 
In that same chapter I committed a grievous error, which I should rectify. 
In speaking of ecclesiastical celibacy, (a propos of Gregory the 7th,) I said 
that married men would never have been able to build those sublime 
monuments, that arrow of Strasburg, &c. It is, on the contrary, disco- 
vered that the architects of the Gothic churches were laymen, most fre- 
quently married men. He of Strasburg, Edwin of Steinback, had a ce- 
lebrated daughter, Sabina, who was herself an artist. 

t And those who have understood it are the only ones who respect and 
regret it. If we were the mortal enemies of these churches, we would 
do that which is now going on, we would take from them every thing 
which renders them venerable, their old color, the moss of past ages, the 



130 ARCHITECTtmAL AID. 

He has, however, thought better of it at last. He has found 
it politic and useful like us, to praise Christian architecture. 
He has adorned himself with his own church, he has re- 
enveloped himself in this glorious mantle, he places himself 
there triumphantly. The crowd comes, sees, admires — cer- 
tainly if we are to judge of a well dressed man by his gar- 
ment, he who clothes himself with a Notre Dame of Paris, 
or a Cathedral of Cologne, is the giant of the spiritual world. 
Alexander, on his departure for India, wishing to deceive 
posterity with regard to the stature of his Macedonians, 
caused them to trace out a camp, in which the place of each 
man was ten feet. What a place is this church! What a 
dwelling, and what an immense host ought to reside in it f 
Phantasmagoria adds still to its grandeur. Every proportion 
is changed. The deceived eye deceives itself — sublime lights, 
deep shadovv's — every thing favors the illusion. The man 
who, by his vulgar mien, you would take in the streets for a 
village schoolmaster, is here a prophet. He is transfigured by 
this gilded frame ; his dullness becomes strengthened majesty; 
his voice has formidable echoes. The woman and the child 
fear him. 

When that woman returns to her own home, every thing 
is prosaic and common place. Had she for a husband a 
Pierre Cornielle, if he inhabits the miserable house which is 
still shown as his, she took him out of pity. Intellectual 
greatness in a closet will never strike her. She compares and 
she is sad, severely mild. Her patient husband smiles, or ap- 
pears to do so. " Her director has turned her head," he says 



mutilations. We would efface all that ; we would place in them the sta- 
tues of every age, as it is wished to be done at Notre Dame, and we 
would make museums of them. The church has resisted revolutions and 
time ; it will not resist the conspiracy of the mason and the priest. The 
mason has induced the priest lo believe that he was making it Gothic in 
1845. It is these two who pilfer, overthrow, and demolish the old Gothic, 
being sure to make a new one. 



THE CONFESSIONAL. 131 

aloud, and in a low voice to himself, " after all she only sees 
him at church." But what place, I pray you, is more pow- 
erful to the imagination than a church, richer in illusions, 
more fascinating ? It is indeed the church which enobles a 
man who is elsewhere vulgar, which magnifies, exaggerates 
him, lends to him its poetry. 

Do you see that solemn figure, which beneath the gold and 
purple of the priestly robes, mounts, with the thoughts of the 
people, amid the prayers of ten thousand men, the triumphal 
station of the choir of St. Dennis ? Do you still see him, who 
high above all this kneeling crowd, mounts to the height 
of the ceiling, carries his head among the chapiters, among 
the Manged heads of the angels, and from thence lanches the 
thunder-bolt ? — Well, it is he himself — this terrible archangel, 
who daily descends for her, and now mild and gentle comes 
below, into that obscure chapel, to listen to her during the 
languishing hours of the afternoon. . . . Beautiful hour ! Sport- 
ting and tender, (and why does the heart beat so strongly 
here ?) . . . The church is already dark ! it is not, however, 
late. The great rose of the door glistens in the setting sun. 
. . . But it is different in the choir ; deep shadows there extend 
themselves, and behind is darkness. . . . One thing astonishes 
and almost alarms us, though we regard it from afar ; it is, 
from the very depth of the church, that mystery of the old 
windows, which, no longer showing an exact design, sparkle 
in the shade like an illegible conjurer's book of unknown cha- 
racters. . . . The chapel is none the less obscure : you can 
distinguish no longer the ornaments, the delicate tracery which 
unites itself with tlie roof; the thickening shadow confounds 
all forms. But, as if tliis dark chapel was not already dark 
enough, it contains in one corner a narrow nook of black oak, 
where this excited man, this trembling woman, placed so near 
each other, speak in a low voice of the love of God ! 



(132) 



CHAPTER II. 

77ie Ccynfessional . — The actual Ediicatioyi of the Young Cmifessor. — The 
Confessor of the Middle Ages. — 1st. He Believed. — 2d. He Mortified 
Himself. — 3rf. He teas Superior by Education. — ith. He knew less how 
to Question. — The Casuists wrote for their oicn Times. — The Rocks of the 
Young Confessor. — How he strengthens his tottering Position. 

A WORTHY parish priest has frequently told me, that the 
sore of his state, his despair with himself, and the torment of 
his life, was the confessional. 

The studies by which they are prepared at the seminaries 
are such, that the temperament frequently perishes there, the 
body sickens beneath it, the soul remains enervated and de- 
praved. 

A laical education which does not make any pretensions to 
excessive purity, and whose pupils will live one day an or- 
dinary life ; takes, however, great care to avert from the eyes 
of a young man, the too seducing images which trouble the 
senses. The ecclesiastical education, which pretends to make 
men more than men ; pure virgin spirits, angels ; fixes the 
attention of its pupils upon things which will always be inter- 
dicted to them, and gives them as objects of study, terrible 
temptations enough to ruin all the saints. Their printed books 
have been cited ; but the manuscripts, by which the educa- 
tion of the seminaries during the last two years is completed, 
have not been cited ; these manuscripts contain matter that the 
boldest have never dared to publish. 

I cannot reproduce here that which has been revealed to me 
in regard to this senseless education by those who have suf- 
fered and almost perished by it. No one can picture to him- 
self the state of that young man, still a believer and sincere, 
struggling between the terrors and temptations by which he is 



REMAINS OF A VILE ERA. 133 

surrounded — designedly, between two unknown things, either 
of which is sufficient to set him crazy, woman and 'perdition^ 
and still constrained unceasingly, to look into the abyss — giddy, 
over those shameless books, with the temperament and warmth 
of youth. 

This unheard of imprudence came originally from the scho- 
lastic supposition, that we could perfectly isolate the soul and 
body. They believed they could guide them, like coursers of 
different gaits, the one to the right, the other to the left. They 
did not dream that in this case, it would be with a man, as 
with the chariot sculptured in the pediment of the Louvre, 
which drawn two ways, must, without doubt, go to pieces 
How different soever may be the nature of the two substan- 
ces, is it not most perceptible that they are mingled in action .'' 
There is not a movement of the soul which does not act upon 
the body, and the body re-acts on it. The most cruel war upon 
the body, will kill the body more easily than it will prevent its 
action on the soul. Is it not then a puerile thing to think, that 
a vow, some prayers, and a black robe on the back, will deliver 
you from the frailties of the flesh, and make you a pure spirit? 

They will offer as an objection, that crowd of men of the 
middle ages, who lived a life of mortification. 

To this I have not one answer, but twenty, and they with- 
out reply. It is very easy to show, that the priest in general 
and particularly the confessor, were not then what they have 
been during the last two centuries. 

1st. The first reply will be perhaps harsh ; then the priest was 
a believer. — "How — does the priest no longer believe.^ 
would you say, that when speaking of his faith with so much 
energy, he is an hypocrite and a liar ?" No ; I heartily wish, 
he may be sincere ; but there are many degrees of faith. — It 
is related that Lope de Vega, (who as we know was a priest,) 
coukl not ofilciate ; at the moment of the sacrifice, lie pictured 
to himself in too lively a manner the passion, burst into tears, 
and became sick. Compare this now with the coquettish pan- 

12 



134 ANCIENT PRIESTS AND PENITENTS. 

tomine of the Jesuit, who trifles with the mass at Fribourg, or 
with the prelate whom I have seen pre-occupied with exhibit- 
ing his small white hand at the altar. 

The priest believed, and his penitent heUeved. Unheard-of 
terrors, miracles, devils, hell, filled the church. The words 
" God hears," was not only graven on the wood, but in the 
heart. It was not a plank which separated the confessional, 
but the sword of the archangel, the thought of the judgment. 

2d. If the priest spoke in the name of the Spirit, he had 
some right to do so, having purchased the spiritual power hy 
the suicide of the body. Long prayers by night were not suffi- 
cient to do so, but they provided for it more directly by ex- 
cessive fasting. Fasting was the regimen of those poor and 
rude schools of Mendicants, Cappets, &c., whose famished 
table was kept alive by arguments. Half dead before the age 
of manhood, they cooled their blood by herbs of mortal cold- 
ness, and exhausted themselves by bleeding. The number of 
bleedings to which the monks were subjected, was provided 
for in their rules. The stomach was soon destroyed, and the 
strength was never more recruited. St. Bernard and St. The- 
resa were weakened by continual vomitings ; the sense of taste 
even was lost ; the holy father, says his biographer, drank- 
blood for beer. The word, mortification^ was not then a vain 
word ; there was not only an isolation of body and soul, but 
even the suppression of the body. 

3d. The priest believed himself, in this sense, to be the man 
of the Spirit, and he was so eifectively hy the superiority of his 
education. He knew every thing; others, nothing. Even 
when the priest was young, he was truly the father, the other 
was the child — now, the reverse is the case ; the layman, he 
of the cities at least, is generally better informed than the 
priest; even the peasant, who has a family, and interests or 
business to look after, or who has passed through the army, 
has more experience than his curate, more real knowledge ; 
if he speaks worse, that is of no consequence. The contrast is 



QUESTIONS OF THE CONFESSIONAL. 135 

still greater when this unexperienced priest, who now has 
known nothing but the seminary, sees at his knees a woman 
of the world, of intrigue, of passion, who at the age of thirty- 
five, for example, has discovered all that exists in sentiments 
and ideas. What ! it is she who asks advice from him ; it is 
she who calls him " my father." But each word that she 
speaks, is a revelation to him : he is astonished, inwardly 
alarmed. If he has not wisdom to keep quiet, he will say ab- 
surd things. His penitent, who came much moved, goes away 
laughing. 

4th. There is another difference, which will only be per- 
ceived by those who know the middle age ; language was not 
acute^ as it has since become. No one had then our habits 
of analysis and development ; the confession was a mere de- 
claration of sin, without a detail of circumstances. Still less 
could they deduce the phenomena which accompany passion, 
the desires, doubts, fears, which give to it the force of illu- 
sion and of mirage, and which render it contagious. There 
was, if one wished, the confessional ; but the woman did not 
know how to speak, nor the confessor to listen ; she could 
not open the true depths of her thoughts, and he did not know 
how to probe them. Avowal on one part, sentence on the 
other, was the whole. There was no dialogue, no confidence, 
no out-pouring of the heart. 

If the priest has not enough imagination and mind to put 
questions, he has had in his hands for two centuries, the ques- 
tions already put, which he will address by order, and by 
which he will force his penitent to seek out her thoughts, to 
dig out her own secret to give it up whole to him ; to open 
her heart, fibre by fibre ; thread by tliread, if we may so speak, 
and to disentangle before him the whole skein, which since that 
time, he has hchl in his hands. 

Tliis terrible instrument of iniquity, which, in an unskillful 
hand, can soil the soul whilst probing it, ought, at least, to 
change with manners. Morality never changes, but manners 



136 CASUISTS STILL QUOTED. 

vary according to times ; there is no doubt of this simple truth. 
They are the remains of the manners of the period, in which 
the intellectual movement ceased for them. The manuals 
which are placed in the hands of the young confessor, are 
sustained by the casuists whom Pascal has buried. If even 
the immorality of their solutions had not been demonstrated, 
deign to call to your recollection, that Escobar and Sanchez 
proposed questions for a period horribly corrupt, from which, 
thanks be to God, we are far removed. Their casuistry was 
addressed in its origin to a world of festering filth, which the 
religious wars left behind them. You will find in them such 
crimes as could never be committed except by the horrid sol- 
diery of the Duke of Alba, or by those bands without country, 
law, or God, which Wallenstein raised, true wandering Sodom- 
ites, whom the old ones would have held in horror. 

One knows not how to qualify this culpable practice. Those 
books made for a barbarous period, singular in its crimes, are 
the only ones which now, in full civilization, you give to your 
pupils ! 

And this young priest, who, according to you, believes that 
the world is still that frightful world ; who comes to the con- 
fessional* with all that villainous knowledge ; his imagination 
furnished with monstrous cases ; you place him, imprudent 
men, (or how shall I call you ?) in contact with a child who 
has not left her mother, who knows nothing, has nothing to 
tell, whose greatest crime consists in not having learned her 
catechism well, or in having wounded a butterfly. 

I shudder at the questions he is about to put to her ; at all 
that he is about to teach her in his conscientious brutality ! 
But, he has the excellence to ask her . . . She knows nothing, 
says nothing. — He scolds her, and she weeps. The tears will 
be soon dry, but she will ponder these things for a long time. 

* Read those beautiful pages of P. L. Courrier, and those of M. Ge- 
nin, so spiritual, so eloquent, so ardent with the indignation of an honest 
man* 



A CRUEL LESSON. 137 

We might make a book upon the debut of a young priest ; 
upon his imprudences, so grievous, so fatal for himself or 
others. The penitent is sometimes more wary than the con- 
fessor. She amuses herself with seeing him advance, she re- 
gards him coldly ; he becomes excited, and advances too far.* 
He who forgot himself in his passionate revery, is rudely 
awakened by the lesson which a witty and mocking woman 
gives him at her knees. 

Cruel lesson, which causes him to feel the coldness of steel. 
One does not experience such a thing, without remaining for 
a long time embittered ; sometimes bad for ever. This young 
priest knew well, that he was the victim, the disinherited of 
the world, but he had not perceived it. . . . Great gall mounts 
to his heart — He prays to God that the world may die (if per- 
chance he yet prays to God,) 

Then, turning to himself, and seeing himself without a re- 
medy, in this black sheet, this robe of death, which he will 
carry to his grave, he sinks down cursing it. He considers 
what part he shall draw from his punishment. 

And the only part to take, is to strengthen his position as a 
priest. There are two methods ; by communication with the 
Jesuits, and by servile assiduity to my lord the Bishop. I re- 
commend him above all things, to be violent against the philo- 
sophers, to bark at pantheism. Although he may thus blacken 
his fellow priests, he will the more whiten himself. Let him 
prove that he knows how to hate, and they will dispense with 
love in him. 

His corps from henceforth protect, defend, cover him. He 
■who would have been lost as an isolated priest, becomes holi- 



* And wiiy should not this excitement happen in such nn interview 7 It is 
enough for persons ot difl'erent sexes to pray together in the same room to 
induce intoxication and burn the brain. This happens in the asscmbhes of 
excited Protestants in the United States and elsewhere. Read the witty 
and judicious trifle of Swift's Fragnieitftki the Mechanical Operations of 
the Spiritf especially toward the clo^e of iL 

12- 



138 PRUDENCE. 

ness itself as soon as he is a party man. He was about to be 
interdicted; sent perhaps for six months to La Trappe; he 
becomes a vicar general. 

Only let him be prudent, in the delicate matters which the 
corps love to conceal ; let him learn the arts of the priest ; to 
feign, to wait, to know how to contain himself, to advanfce, 
but quietly, sometimes on the earth, but more frequently un- 
der it. 



(139) 



CHAPTER III. 

The Confessional. — TTie Confessor and the Husband. — How the Wife be- 
comes isolated. — The Director. — 27ie Directors reunited. — The ecclesiasti- 
col Police. 

When I think of all that is contained in the words, confess 
sion^ direction^ those little words, that great power, the most com- 
plete in the world; when I essay to analyse all that is in it, I 
am alarmed, it appears to me, that I am descending by an 
infinite spiral line of a deep and dark mine. I have had pity 
heretofore for the priest ; now, I dread him. 

We must not be alarmed ; we must look it in the face. Let 
us frame with simplicity the language of the confessor. 

" God hears thee ; hears thee through me ; by me God will 
reply to thee." Such are the first words to the letter. The 
authority is accepted as infinite, absolute, without cavilling over 
the measure. 

" But thou tremblest ! thou darest not tell to this terrible 
God, thy weak and childish acts. — Well then, /eZ/ them to 
thy father ; a father has a right to know the secrets of his 
child ; an indulgent father, who only wishes to know them, 
in order to absolve them. He is a sinner like thyself; has he 
the right then to be severe ? Come then child, come and 
speak. — That which thou hast never dared to whisper in thy 
mother's ear, tell me; who will ever know it?" 

Then, then among sighs from the swelling, throbbing 
breast, the fatal word mounts to the lips ; it escapes, and is 
concealed. He who has heard it, has acquired a great ad- 
vantage which he will preserve. God grant that he does not 
abuse it. He who has heard it — be careful — is not wood ; the 
black oak of the old confessional ; he is a man of llesh and 
blood. 



140 FASCINATION. 

And this man now knows of this woman, what the husband 
has never known in the long out-pouring of the heart by night 
and day ; that which her mother does not know, who believes 
that she knows her entirely, having held her so often naked 
on her knees. 

This man knows ; he will know . . . Do not fear that he 
forgets. If the avowal is in good hands, so much the belter, 
for it is for ever. . . . She also knows well, that she has a mas- 
ter over her inmost thoughts. She will never pass before that 
man without lowering her eyes. 

The day on which this mystery was made common, he was 
very near her ; she felt his presence. . . . Seated above her, he 
weighed her down by an invisible ascendancy. A magnetic 
force conquered her, for she did not wish to speak, and yet, 
she spoke, in despite of herself. She was fascinated, like the 
bird before the serpent. 

Up to this point, there was, perhaps, no art on the side of the 
priest. The force of things did all ; that of the religious in- 
stitution, and that of nature. As a priest, he received her at 
his knees at the listening box. Then master of her secret, of 
her thought, of the thought of a woman, he has discovered 
himself to be a man ; and without wishing it, without perhaps 
knowing it, he has placed on her, feeble and disarmed, the 
heavy hand of a man. 

And the family now ! the husband ! who will dare to say 
that his situation is the same as before ? 

Every one who reflects, knows very well, that thought is in 
a person that which most controls him. The master of the 
thoughts, is he to whom the person belongs. The priest holds 
the soul as soon as he has the dangerous gage of the first se- 
crets, and he will hold it faster and firmer. An entire division 
is made between the spouses, for now there are two ; the one 
has the soul, the other the body. 

Note that in this division, one of the two has in truth every 
thing; the other, if he keeps any thing, keeps it by grace. 



CONFESSOR ENVIOUS. 141 

Thought, from its very nature is dominant, absorbing; the 
master of the thought in the natural progress of his sway, will 
go on constantly subjecting the part which remains to the 
other. It will be already much, if the husband, widowed of 
the soul, preserves the involuntary, inert, and dead possession. 
Humiliating thing, only to obtain your own, but by permis- 
sion and indulgence ;* to be seen, followed into the most 
intimate intimacy by an invisible witness who regulates you, 
and assigns to you your part. ... to meet in the street a man 
who knows better than yourself your most secret acts of 
weakness, who humbly, salutes you, turns aside and laughs! 

It is nothing to be powerful, if one is not powerful alone, 
. . . alone! God does not divide. 

It is the reason why the priest so certainly succeeds in his 
persevering efforts to isolate that woman ; to weaken the bonds 
of family ties ; to undermine a rival authority ; I mean that of 
a husband. The husband weighs strongly against the priest. 
If this husband suffers by being so well known, watched, spied, 
he who watches him, although he is single, suffers still more. 
She proceeds at every moment to tell him, innocently, of things 
which place him beside himself. Frequently he would stop 
her; he would say to her willingly, " thanks Madame, there 
is too much." And although these details cause him to suffer 
as one of the damned, he even wishes still more of them ; he 
exacts that she should descend with avowals humiliating for 
her and cruel for himself, to the saddest circumstances. 

The confessor of a young woman can boldly define himself 
to be envious of the husband, and his secret enemy. If there 
is one who is an exception to this, (and I wish I could believe 
it,) he is a hero, a saint, a martyr, a man above a man. 

* St. Francis of Sales, the best of all, had compassion on the poor hus- 
band. He takes away certain scruples of a woman, v^c. This goodness 
even is here singularly humiliating. (See edition 18.^3, vol. viii. pp. '2ri4, 
312, 347, 348.) Marriage, which is a sacrament, here appears as if on its 
knees before the direction ; it appears to ask pardon and make an apology. 



142 



MORAL SOLITUDE. 



All the labour of a confessor is to isolate this woman, and 
he does it conscientiously. It is the duty of him who leads 
her into the way of safety, to disengao^e her little by little from 
all the liens of earth. It requires time, patience, address. He 
does not endeavour to break at a blow such strong chains, but 
to discover at first of what threads each chain is composed, 
and thread by thread to wear it out, to rot it. 

He rots and wears it away at his ease. Each day awaken- 
ing new scruples, he disquiets a timid soul as to the legitimacy 
of the holiest attachments. If it is an innocent one, it is, how- 
ever, after all, an earthly attachment — a robbery of God ; God 
wishes all. No more relationship, no more friendship — 
nothing must remain. " A brother" — no, he is still a man. 
'* But at least my sister my mother" — no ; you must abandon 
all — abandon them with your soul and will ; you w^ill always 
see them, my daughter — nothing will appear changed — only 
close well your heart." 

A moral solitude is thus established all around. Friends 
find themselves rebuked by an icy politeness — it becomes 
chilly in that house. Why this strange reception } They 
cannot divine ; she herself does not always know it — the 
thing is commanded ; is not that sufficient } Obedience 
consists in obeying without reason. 

All that they can say is, it is cold here. The husband finds 
his house larger and emptier; his wife has become entirely 
altered. Though present, she is absent in mind ; she acts as 
if not acting ; she speaks as if not speaking. Every thing is 
changed in their private habits, always for a good reason. 
" To-day it is a fast" — and to-morrow, " it is a festival." 
The husband respects this austerity ; he is scrupulous about 
troubling so lofty a devotion ; he resigns himself sadly. " This 
is embarrassing," said he ; "I did not foresee it ; my wife has 
become a saint." 

There are in this said house fewer friends ; but there is one 



CONSPIRACY OF CONFESSORS. 143 

more person, and he most assiduous. The habitual confessor 
is now the director.* Great and considerable change ! 

As a confessor, he received her at the church at his own 
house. As a director, he visits her at his own hour ; sees her 
at her own house, sometimes at his. 

As a confessor, he was most frequently passive ; he heard 
much and spoke little ; if he prescribed, it was in a few words. 
As a director, he is active ; not only does he prescribe the 
acts, but what is still deeper, by means of their intimate con- 
versation, he influences the thoughts. 

To the confessor they told their sins, nothing more. To 
the director they tell every thing. They speak of themselves, 
their cares, their business, their interests. Shall they not con- 
fide their small temporal affairs, such as the marriage of chil- 
dren, the will they are perfecting, Slc, to him to whom they 
confide their greatest interest, that of their eternal safety ? 

The confessor is bound to secrecy; he is silent, or should 
be so. The director has not this obligation. He can reveal 
what he knows, especially to a priest or another director. 
Let us suppose in a house twenty priests, (or a few less from 
regard to the law of association,) who are some confessors, 
others directors of the same persons ; as directors they can 
exchange their tokens, place in common upon a table a thou- 
sand or two consciences, by combining the reports like the 
pieces in a game of chess, by regulating in advance the move- 
ments and interests, and by distributing among themselves the 
parts which they should play to lead all to their ends. 

The Jesuits alone formerly thus laboured together. All 
communicating with all, there resulted from these secret reve- 
lations a vast and mysterious science, by which the ecclesias- 
tical policy obtained an army a thousand times stronger than 
that of a state could be. 



* The name is now rare, the thing common. lie who is for a long timo 
confessor, becomes a director. 



144 CONFESSING SERVANTS. 

What was wanting in the confession of masters, was easily 
supplied by that of domestics, valets, and servant maids. The 
association of Blandines in Lyons, imitated in Brittany, Paris, 
and elsewhere, would alone suffice to throw light in the internal 
affairs of families. Though they know them, they none the 
less employ them. They are mild and docile — serve their 
masters very well — know how to look and listen. '^ 

Happy father of a family who has such a wife. So virtuous 
— such domestics — mild and humble, honest, pious. What 
the man in olden times wished, to live in a glass house, where 
every one could always see him, he could have without wish- 
ing for it. Not a word of his is lost. He speaks very low, 
but the fine ear has heard all. if he writes his inmost thoughts, 
not wishing to speak them, they are read, by whom ? — he is 
ignorant. That which he dreams on his pillow, he is astonish- 
ed to hear the next day in the street. 



(145) 



CHAPTER IV. 

Habit — Its Power, its insensible Beginnings^ its Progress, second Nature, fre^ 
quently baneful. — A man lahouring under the Power of Habit, can he free 
himself from itl 

If the spiritual sway is truly spiritual, if the empire over 
thought is obtained by thought itself, by superiority of cha- 
racter and of mind, then we must submit to it. Nothing is left 
but resignation. The family will, doubtless, demand the per- 
son, but in vain. 

Jt is not then enough to generalize. The influence of which 
we speak, never supposes, as an essential condition, brilliant en- 
dowments of the mind. They serve, beyond doubt, him who 
has them — but if he has them in an eminent degree, they may 
injure him. Brilliant superiority, which always appears to 
pretend to rule, begets distrust, warns the least prudent, and 
closes the door to those beginnings which, in this case, are 
every thing.^ Men of moderate intellects do not alarm us, they 
have an easier entrance. The weaker they are, the less are 
they suspected and the stronger are they in one sense. . . . 
The iron quashes on the rock, it becomes dnll and blunted 
against it. But water — what can set it at defiance ? Soft, co- 
lourless, tasteless; if, however, it continues to fall in the same 
spot, it will, at length, wear away the rock and the flint. 

* Romance writers rarely understand this. Most of them commence 
with an adventure, a surprising meeting. But every thing which is surpris- 
ing places us on our guard, and prevents the beginning of any thing. They 
arc prodigal of adventures, active, and notliing wouhl justly ho fitted to 
awaken attention, to render fascinations impossible, &-c. What we say in 
this chapter of the power of habit, will, perhaps, be understood by people 
of the world, especially of Paris ; in a life so distracted and varied, they 
can scarcely imagine the dull uniformity which time would, under other 
circumstances, bring. 

13 



146 POWER OF HABIT. 

Remain at that window every day, at the same hour in the 
afternoon. You will see a pale man passing along the street, 
looking upon the ground — always by the same street, always 
on the same line in the pavement. There he placed his foot 
yesterday, there he places it to-day, and there he will place it 
to-morrow ; he would wear out the stones if they were not re- 
newed. And through this same street he goes to the same 
house, he mounts by the same staircase, and in the same cabi- 
net he speaks to the same person. He speaks of the same 
things, and always appears to speak of the same thing. The 
person who listens to him, sees no difterence between yester- 
day and to-day. Sweet uniformity, as sweet as the sleep of an 
infant, w^hose breathing raises its breast uniformly with the 
same slight noise. 

You think that nothing changes in this monotonous equality, 
and that one day is as another. You are in error. You have 
perceived nothing, and yet at each day there is a change, slight 
indeed, it is true, imperceptible, which the person, changed 
herself little by little, does not remark. 

It is like a dream in a vessel. How far you have traversed, 
"while dreaming, w^ho can know ? You go on thus without 
moving — motionless, and yet rapid. Escaping from the river, 
or canal, you soon find yourself on the sea — the immense uni- 
formity in which you now are, will advise you still less of the 
distance you traverse. More room and more time ; there is 
no marked point to attract attention, and there's no more atten- 
tion to it. Profound is the revery, and still more profound . . . 
an ocean of dreams on the soft ocean of waters. 

Sweet state, where, little by little, every thing becomes in- 
sensible — even mildness itself. Is it a state of death or life } 
To distinguish it, requires attention, and we must leave our 
revery. I do not know whither it carries me — whether it leads 
me to life or death. 

Habit, habit, soft and formidable abyss, into which one 



ITS GROWTH. 147 

glides so softly ! One can equally speak all the good, and all 
the evil in the world of thee, and it will be always true. 

Let us avow it: if the action which we performed at first 
in full knowledge, and voluntarily, was only done willingly 
and attentively, if it did not become habitual and easy, we 
would do but little and gently ; life would pass in endeavours 
and efforts. If, for example, at each step that we took, we 
should deliberate concerning the direction of it, and seek our 
equilibrium, we should not walk more than an infant, who en- 
deavours to walk. But walking is now a habit, an action 
which is accomplished without the necessity of invoking the 
continual intervention of the will. Is it not so with many 
other actions, which still less voluntary, end by becoming 
mechanical, automaton-like in us, strangers in some sort to 
our personality. As we advance in life, a notable part of our 
activity escapes from our knowledge, sallies from the sphere 
of liberty to enter into that of habit, and becomes as fatal ; the 
remainder solaced on this side — and being dispensed on that 
from attention and effort, finds itself, in revenge, free to act 
elsewhere. 

Habit is useful — but dangerous. The fatal part augments in 
us, without our beiiTg concerned about it, and increases in our 
dark hearts. That which yesterday excited our attention, 
to-day passes by unperceived. That which was at first diffi- 
cult, becomes in time easy, perhaps too easy, since one cannot 
even longer say that it is easy, for it alone becomes every 
thing, without oyr having wished it; we suffer if we do not 
do it. These actions being, of all others, those which cost 
the least punishment, are unceasingly renewed. We must, 
admit that a second nature at length results from them, which, 
formed at the expense of the other, in a great degree replaces 
it. We forget the difficulties of the first beginnings, and we 
figure to ourselves that we have always been thus. Tiiis fa- 
vours at least our idleness, and prevents us from making any 
efforts to arrest ourselves on the declivitv Besides, the trace 



148 



SECOND NATURE. 



of change is in fact at length effaced, the way has disap- 
peared — should we wish to reconstruct it, we would not be 
able to do so. It is like a bridge broken behind us ; we have 
passed over it, and we shall pass it no more. 

We then resign ourselves, and we say, endeavouring to 
smile, " it is second nature for me ; '' or even, ••• it is my nature^'* 
so much have we forgotten. 

But between this nature, and our true original nature, which 
we had at our birth, there is a great difference.* It is this : 
this latter, drawn from the bosom of our mother, w^as like 
that mother herself, an attentive guardian of our life, which 
warned us of all that could compromise us ; which sought and 
formed in its benevolence a remedy against our ills. And this 
second nature, habit, under this perfidious name, is nothing 
but the highway which leads to death. 

" It is my second nature," says sadly the opium drinker, see- 
ing him die by his side, who had advanced some months be- 
fore him in the use of this deadly beverage. " I have yet so 
many months to live.'' ..." It is my second nature," says 
that miserable child, the devoted victim of sensual pleasure. 
Toothing helps it, neither reasoning, nor punishment, nor ma- 
ternal grief. Both are going, will go, to the end by the road 
which never recommences. 

A vulgar proverb, (here cruelly true,) tells us, " He who has 
drank will drink." Let us generalize it — he who has acted, 
will act; he who has suffered will suffer. Only it is more 
true in relation to passive than active habits. Accustomed to 
idleness, to suffering, to enjoyment, we become incapable of 
resuming active exertion. At length it needs no longer the al- 
lurements of enjoyment. After that it is drained, and grief 
takes its place ; inexorable habit pours always into the same 
cup ; it takes no longer the pains to dissimulate ; we discover 

* This difference is not pointed out, aa I know, by Maine de Biran, nor 
by Mr. Felix Ravaisson, in his ingenious and profound dissertation on 
habit. 



PAST ESCAPE. 149 

it too late to be invidious and invincible, and it says coldly to 
us, "Thou hast drunk the honey ; now thou shall drink the 
gall even to the last drop." 

If this tyrant is so strong, when it acts blindly, when it is 
but a single thing like opium or gin, what is it then when it 
has two eyes, a will, art ; in one word, when it is a man ? . . 
A man full of calculation, who knows how to create and fo- 
ment the habit to his own profit; a man who, as his first 
means, has against himself your own belief; who combines 
personal fascination with the authority of a respected charac- 
ter; w^ho, to exercise it over you, and found a habit of it in 
you, has daily opportunities, days, months, years — time, irre- 
sistible time, the tamer of all human things ; time which re- 
gards it but as sport to eat iron and brass. ... Is the heart of 
a woman then harder, that it can resist him ? 

A woman ? a child ! . . . A person at least, who desires io he 
a child^ w^ho employs all the faculties she has acquired since 
her infancy, in falling back into the state of infancy, who di- 
rects her will to will no longer, her thoughts to think no more, 
who surrenders herself to sleep. 

Suppose that she wakes up, (it is a case which never hap- 
pens,) that she wakes up for a moment, that she surprises her 
tyrant without his mask, and that she sees him as he is, and 
wishes to escape. . . . Do you helieve that she can ?* For 
that purpose she must act, and she knows no longer how to 
do so, not having acted for so long a time ; the members are 
cold ; the paralyzed limbs know nothing of motion ; the heavy 
hand rises up, falls down, and says. No. 

Then do they not perceive too often, that it is but habit, and 
how bound once by its thousand imperceptible threads you 
remain joined in spite of yourself to that which you detest. 

* This causes one to think of the enchanter Merlin, wlio, nt ihe en- 
treaty oi Vivian, lay tiown in his toinh ; but he did not know the words 
which were to deliver liini ; lie remainb there, and will remain until the 
judgment, 

13* 



150 THE FAIRY WEB. 

These threads, though invisible none the less, resist you ; 
weak and supple as they appear, you break one, and beneath 
it you find two ; it is a double, triple web. . . . Who knows its 
thickness ? 

I read once in an old tale a very striking and truly signifi- 
cant thing. It was the story of a woman, a wandering 
princess, who, after many fatigues, found an asylum in a de- 
serted palace in the midst of a wood. She was happy to 
repose there, and to sojourn there for some time; she went 
and came without obstacle, through the great empty rooms ; 
she thought herself alone and free. All the doors were open, 
only at the entrance, since she had passed it, no one having 
passed after her, a spider had stretched its web to the sun, a 
web fine, light, almost invisible. A feeble obstacle, which 
the princess, who wished at length to leave it, believed she 
could disperse without difficulty. In fact she raises this web, 
but there is a second one behind it, which she raises without 
difficulty. The second covers a third, which she must also 
raise. Strange, there is a fourth — ^a fifth, or rather six — and 
still more. Ah ! how could she raise so many webs ? She is 
already very tired. . . . No matter, she perseveres ; by taking 
a little breath she can continue. . . . But the web also con- 
tinues, and constantly renews itself with malicious obstinacy. 
What small shreds ! She yields to fatigue, perspiration flows 
from her, her arms fall by her sides. . . . She finishes by seat- 
ing herself exhausted on the ground, on this impassable 
threshold ; she looks sadly at this serial obstacle, which dances 
in the wind, li^ht and a conqueror. Poor princess, poor fly, 
you are then a prisoner. Why did you stop in this fairy 
mansion, and leave to the spider time to make its web ? 



(151) 



CHAPTER V. 

Convents. — Absolute 'power of the Director. — State of the Nun forsaken^ 
watched. — Convents, which are at once Houses of Force andLunatic Houses. 
— Inveigling. — Barbarous Discipline. — St?'uggle between the Superior and 
Director. — Change of the Director. — The Magistrate, 

I OCCUPIED for fifteen years a house in a solitary quarter, 
whose garden joined that of a convent for females. Although 
my casements overlooked the greater part of the garden, I 
never saw my sad neighbours. In the month of May, on the 
day of Rogation, 1 heard numerous voices, but weak, very 
weak, which chanted prayers traversing the gardens of the 
convent. The singing was sad, poor, ungrateful, with voices 
badly harmonized, as if broken by suffering. I thought for a 
moment that I recognized the prayers for the dead ; listening 
better, however, I distinguished " Te rogamus^ audi nos^^"^ the 
song of hope, which calls down upon fruitful nature the 
blessing of the God of life. This song of May, sung by 
these dead ones, was a bitter contrast. I see these pale 
daughters, who shall never flourish, draw themselves along 
on the green grass, bearing flowers. . . . The thoughts of the 
middle age, which first seized me, soon escaped ; then the mo- 
nastic life was allied with a thousand other things ; but in our 
modern harmony what is it but a barbarous misconstruction, 
a false note which jars ! I would not defend that which was 
before my eyes, neither from nature nor from history. I closed 
my casement, and sadly took up again my book. That sight 
had been painful, not having been softened, nor relieved by any 
poetical sentiment. It recalled virginity less than barren wi- 
dowhood J a state of emptiness, of want, of power, of ennui, 



152 ]VIARIA LEMONNIER. 

of an intellectual* and moral fast, in which these unfortunate 
beings are kept by their absolute masters. 

We spoke of habit — it is here that it reigns as a tyrant. 
There is no need of art to take these poor, isolated, shut up, 
dependent women, who have nothing from without to balance 
the impression which, a person, the same person can give 
them every day. The least skilful might fascinate without 
difficulty a nature broken and bent to the most servile, the 
most trembling obedience. It requires but little courage and 
merit to rule that which is already broken to our hands. 

To speak only at first of the power of habit, there is nothing 
which we see in the world of the living that can convey an 
idea of the force which it has in this small enclosed world. 
The society of our family modities us beyond doubt ; but its 
influence is neutralized by external movements. The regu- 
larity of the favorite journal, w^iich comes every morning to 
sound the same sound, is not without its influence; but this 
journal has others opposed to it. An influence which is less 
in these times, but which is still very strong over isolated per- 
sons, is that of a great book, whose attractive reading detains 
us for twenty years. Diderot avows that Clarissa, read and re- 
read, was, for a long time, all his life, its joy, its sadness, its 
storm, its sunbeam. The most beautiful of books, however, is 

* I have already spoken above of sister Maria Lemonnier, persecuted 
for knowing how to write too well, to draw flowers, &c. " My confes- 
sor," said she, "prohibited me from culling flowers and drav,ing them. 
In walking in the garden with the nuns, unfortunately, on the border of 
the turf, were two wild poppies, which, without thinking, I broke off in 
passing. One of the sisters saw me, and ran to inform the superior, who 
was walking before ; she returned at once towards me, made me open my 
hand, and seeing the poppies, said they could not depend upon me ; and 
the confessor having come that night, she accused me to him of disobe- 
dience in having culled the flowers. I said to him that it was without 
thinking, and that they were wild poppies, but I could not obtain permis- 
sion to confess." Note of sister Maria Lemonnier, in the Memoir of 
M. Filliard. The journals and reviews of March, 1845, furnish us with 
the extracts. 



HER INTERCEPTED LETTERS. 153 

but Still a book, a mute thing, which does not understand us 
and does not reply to us ; it has no words to reply to words, 
eyes to reflect eyes. 

Behind me, then, be these cold images of paper — books! 
Imagine in a solitude into which nothing else penetrates, one 
living thing, the person who alone has the right to enter there, 
who takes the place of all the influences of which we have 
spoken, who is, to her, society, poetical romance, and sermon, 
a person whose coming alone breaks the mortal duration of 
an unoccupied life. Before he comes, after that he has come, 
is, in this profound dullness, the only division of time. 

We said a person — we must say it, a man. To be the only 
one, without comparison, without contradiction, to be the world 
of a soul ; to sever it at will from every recollection which can 
induce rivalry, to eflace from that docile heart even the thoughts 
of a mother which still remained there.* . . . Heir of all, to remain 
alone and fortified in this heart by all the national sentiment 
which he has destroyed. 

The only one ! But he is the good, the perfect, the amiable, 

* It is frequently a pure instinct of tyranny which leads the superiors to 
break the ties of relationship. "The curate of my parish exhorted me to write 
to my father who had lost my mother. I allowed Advent to pass, during 
which the nuns are not permitted to write letters, and the last days of the 
month which are passed in retreat in the institute to prepare for the renewal 
of the vows which is made on New Year's Day. But after the ceremonies 
I hastened to fulfill my duty towards the best of fathers, by addressing to 
him my vows and wishes, and endeavoring to give him some consolation 
in the afflictions and proofs through which it had pleased God to make him 
pass. I went to the cell of the superior, to ask her to read my letter, af- 
fix the seal of the convent to it, and send it — but she was not there. I 
placed it then in my cell, on the table, and went to service, during which 
the mother superior, who knew that I had written, because she sent one 
of her nuns to see what I was doing, made a sign to one of the sisters and 
pent her to lake my letter. She did that to me seven times in succession, 
BO that my father died five months afterwards without having been able to 
obtain the letter he desired from me, and which he hnd caused the curate 
of the parish to ask from ine when on his death bed." Note of Sister 
Lemonnier, in the memorial of M. FilUard. See also the National, for 
March, 1845. 



1 54 FORSAKEN WATCHED . 

the beloved. . . . Enumerate all the good qualities, and they 
will be comprised in these words: One thing even, (without 
speaking of persons,) one thing, if it is single, will end by ta- 
king captive the heart. Charlemagne looking constantly at the 
same view from his palace, a lake and its green border, ended 
by becoming enamoured of it. 

Custom does much, but the heart requires to speak to that 
which it constantly sees. Man or thing, it must speak to it. 
Were it a stone, it would tell every thing to it. It is well that 
our thoughts run over, and that our griefs escape from an over- 
charged heart. 

In this life so uniform, do you believe that that poor nun is 
tranquil ? Ah ! What sad avowals could I here portray — 
avowals too certain, transmitted by tender friends who received 
the tears into their bosoms and came themselves, with pierced 
hearts, to weep near me. 

What causes us to mourn over the prisoner is, that she dies 
in heart, and almost in body. If she is not broken down, de- 
stroyed so as to forget what she was, she will find in the con- 
vent the sufferings of solitude and the world united together. 
Alone, without the power of being alone,=^ — forsaken, watched. 

Forsaken. — That nun, still young, but already old from ab- 
stinence and grief, was yesterday a boarder, a novice who 
was caressed. The friendships of the young girls, the mater- 
nal flatteries of the great, the attractions of this nun or that 
confessor, all have deceived her and led her gently towards 
eternal seclusion. Almost always they believe themselves 
called towards God, when they follow this or that person, of 
a smiling and seducing devotion; who amuses herself with this 
kind of spiritual conquest. One gained she goes to another; 

* The preliminary confession of a mm to a superior, easily accepted dur- 
ing the first fervor, soon becomes an intolerable vexation. In the life of 
Madame Chantal, v^^here it is complained of, see her letters. Vol. ii. pp. 
228, 272, 346, and Fichet 256, Cf. Ribadeneira. The life of St. Theresa. 



TERRIBLE ESPIONAGE, 155 

believing herself beloved by the poor one who followed her 
she cares no more for her. 

Alone in a solitude, without contemplation, without repose ! 
How sweet would be in the comparison, the solitude of forests. 
The trees there would pity her. They are not so hard as they 
appear to be ; they hear and they listen. 

The heart of woman, of a mother, the invincible, maternal 
instinct which proceeds from the very bottom of a woman's 
heart, seeks to deceive itself. It has found some young friend, 
some artless companion, a favorite pupil. . . . Alas ! that will be 
taken from her. Those desirous to make their court, do not fail 
to arraign the purest attachments. The devil is jealous of the 
interests of God — it is for God alone he makes reclamations. 

What wonder is it if this woman is sad, if she becomes 
more and more so, if she wanders alone in the darkest walks 
and no longer speaks ? It is solitude then which becomes her 
crime. She is pointed out, suspected — all observe and watch 
her. By day ? That is not enough. The surveillance lasts 
during the night; they watch her when asleep, they listen 
when she dreams, and note down her words. 

The frightful sentiment of being thus watched day and night 
strangely troubles all the powers of the soul. The darkest hal- 
lucinations come on ; all the worst possible reveries occur in 
open day, and when she is awake. How can poor reason en- 
dure it? You know the visions which Piranesi has engraved. 
Vast subterranean prisons, profound depths without air, stair- 
cases which we climb for ever without reaching the termina- 
tion ; bridges which lead to the abyss; low vaults; narrow 
corridors of catacombs which are about to close up ... In 
those frightful prisons, which are themselves punishments, 
you still find instruments of torture, wheels, iron collars, 
thongs. 

Wiiat is, I pray you, the boundary which separates the con- 
vents of our day from prisons and from lunatic asylums? 
Several convents appear to unite the three characters. 



156 THREE-FOLD CHARACTER OF CONVENTS. 

I know of one difference in the establishments — it is this : 
justice overlooks the prisons, the police the lunatic asylums* 
But at the gates of convents both stop ; the law trembles, and 
dares not cross the threshold. 

The supervision of convents and a precise knowledge of 
their characters, are still more indispensable now, as they 
differ greatly from the convents under the old monarchy. 

Those of the last century were, properly speaking, hospitals 
in which, for a dowry once paid, every noble family, or that 
of a rich citizen, placed one or more daughters in order to 
make a son rich. Once enclosed there, it was their business 
whether they lived or died, no one gave themselves any unea- 
siness about them. Now, nuns inherit^ they are an object, a 
prey. For them are spread a thousand snares to inveigle them, 
an easy prey in their situation of captivity and dependance. 
A superior desirous of enriching her community, has infallible 
means at her command to constrain the nun to give up her 
property. She can, a hundred times a day, under pretext of 
devotion and penitence, humiliate, vex, even maltreat her, so as 
to cast her into despair. Who will say where ascetism termi- 
nates and inveigling begins ? The financial and administrative 
genius now so sway the convents, that it is this kind of capa- 
city which is required in a superior. Several of these ladies 
are eminent business men. One is known at Paris to notaries 
and people of the law, as being able to give them lessons in 
matters of donations, successions, and wills. Paris no longer 
envies Boulogne the possession of this learned jurisconsult, 

* Sister Marie Lemonnier was confined with lunatics. She found there 
a CarmeUte who had been there for 7iine years. The third volume of the 
Wandering Jew contains the true history of Miss B. She really went not 
into an hospital, but into a convent. Since I have this opportunity of say- 
ing a word to our admirable romance writer, will he permit me to ask him 
why he idealizes the Jesuits in this point ; does he not know that certain 
dignitaries of the order are immortalized by ridicule ? It is difficult to be- 
lieve that unskilful writers have strong heads and are profound schemers. 
I look for Bodins, and I find but Loriquets. 



THEIR FORTUNE-HUNTING. 157 

who lately, covered with a veil, taught in the chair of her 
father. 

Our modern laws, the laws of the revolution, which in 
their equity have wished that the daughter and younger son 
should inherit, labour here powerfully for the counter revolu- 
tion. It assists us in comprehending the rapid unheard of 
multiplication of religious houses ; Lyons, which had but 
forty convents in 1789, has now sixty-three.* Nothing stops 
the zeal of monastic recruiters for the safety of rich souls— 
you see them fidgeting around heirs and heiresses. What a 
premium to the young peasants who people our seminaries, 
is this perspective of being able, when once priests, to rule 
fortunes as well as consciences.^ 

Inveigling, which is a little watched in the world, is not in 
the convent, where it is more dangerous, exercising itself on 
confined and dependant persons. There it can be with im- 
punity, uncheckecl, terrible. Who can know it ? Who dares 
to enter there rj No one. . . . Strange thing, there are in our 
country, houses which are not in France. That street, it is 
still France ; cross that threshold, it is a strange country, 
which mocks at your laws. 

What are then theirs .? We know not. What we know 
with certainty, and which is not dissimulated, is, that the bar- 



* I quote from memory the statistics given in 1843 by M. Lortet. 

t Every body buys, sells, traffics. Prelates speculate in lands and 
buildings, Lazarists in agencies for military recruiting, &e. These last, 
the successors of St. Vincent de Paul, the directors of the Sisters of Clia- 
rity, have been, for their charity, so blessed by God, that they now have 
a capital of twenty millions of francs. ThcMr actual general, M. Stephen, 
then proctor of the order, was recently the agent of the Lazarists in a 
distillery company. The grave suit in which they are at present engaged 
presses for a decision, that ii a society enters into an engagement, through 
its general, its absolute chief, it becomes absolved from that engagement 
by changing its general. 

X At Sens, a magistrate dared to enter one, and an ultra Culholic jour- 
nal regrets that he was not thrown out of iho window. 

11 



158 BLOWS IN CONVENTS. 

barous discipline of the middle ages* still rules and per- 
petuates itself there. Cruel contradiction, that system which 
talks so much of the distinction between soul and body, and 
which so believes, when it boldly approaches the confessor 
with carnal temptations ; well, the same system believes, that 
the body, distinct from the soul, is modified by suffering, and 
that the soul is ameliorated and made pure by the blows of the 
lash.| Spiritualized, to strengthen it to resist the seductions of 
the flesh ; materialized, when the question is to break the will. 

How ? When in those galleys even among robbers, murder- 
ers, the most ferocious men, the law prohibits blows. . . . You, 
men of grace, whose only talk is of charity, the holy Virgin, 
the mild Jesus ; you whip women ! . . . What did I say ? girls, 
children ; whose only fault is, after all, some weakness. 

How are these chastisements administered ? That is, per- 
haps, a still more grave question. What kind of compound- 
ing does feap induce them to make ? At what price does au- 
thority sell indulgence } 

Who regulates the number of the blows ? Is it from Ma- 
dame Abbess ? or is it the father superior ? What must the 
passionate, capricious, arbitrary sway of a woman over a wo- 
man be, if this latter displeases her ; of a hag over a beauty ; 
of an old woman over a young one ? One dares not think. 

There a strange controversy frequently occurs between the 
superior and the director. The latter, hardened though he be, 
is still a man. It is very difficult, if at length that poor girl, 
who tells him every thing and obeys him in all things, does 
not move him. The feminine authority at once perceives 
every thing ; observes him, and follows him closely. He sees 
his penitent little, very little, and it is always too much. The 
confession will last so many minutes ; they wait ; show them- 
selves at hand. — She would remain long without this precau- 



* See the preface of this third edition, at the end of the volume. 

t I fin4 the confirmatign of this in the notes of the nun abeady cited. 



FEMALE JESUIT. 159 

tion ; for to the recluse, who experiences elsewhere but insult 
and bad treatment, a compassionate confessor is still a liberty. 

We have seen superiors several times ask for, and obtain 
from the bishops, a change of their confessors, not having 
found them harsh enough for their fancy. There is a great 
difference between the hardness of a man, and the cruelty 
of a woman. What is in your opinion, the most faithful in- 
carnation of the devil in this world ? This inquisitor, or that 
Jesuit ? No ; it is a female Jesuit ; a great lady converted, 
who believes herself born to rule ; who, among this flock of 
trembling females, assumes the part of a Bonaparte, and who, 
more absolute than the most absolute tyrants, uses the fury of 
illy conquered passions in tormenting the unfortunate, defence- 
less ones. 

Far from being opposed here to the confessor, my wishes 
are for him. Priest, monk, Jesuit, behold me on his side. I 
pray him to interfere, if he can. He is still in this hell, into 
which the law does not penetrate ; the only person who can 
say a word in the cause of humanity, ... I know very well, 
that this interference will create the strongest, the most dan- 
gerous attachment. The heart of the poor creature is given in 
advance to him who defends her. 

They will remove this priest; they will drive him away; 
they will get rid of him if they can. He hazards nothing 
there; he fears a disturbance, and retires timidly. You will 
find neither priests nor prelates who maintain themselves with 
their power as confessors and spiritual judges, and who refuse 
absolution to the tyrants of the nuns as Las Casas did to those 
of the hidians. 

There are, fortunately, other judges. The law sleeps,* but 

* The affliirs of Avignon, Sens, Poicticr, ahhoiigli the guilty linve been 
punished so sliglitly, wlYoid hopes that the law will wuke up. — We rend in 
one of the jouniula of C'aen : — It is rumoured at the palace that M., the at- 
torney general, is ahout to enll up, not only the afl'air of the sequestration of 
Sister Maria, but aUo tluii of Sister Stc. riacidtsaa a step in which M.. the 



160 SUPERVISION OF CONVENTS. 

it lives. Courageous magistrates have been willing to do their 
duty.* There is no doubt they are not permitted to do so. 
The nights of these tyrants are troubled ; they know, that every 
violence which is there committed, every blow which is there 
struck, is in contempt of the laws ; is an accusation against them 
before heaven and earth. . . . Rise Lord and judge thy cause! 

advocate general Sorbier wrote to the sub-prefect of Bayeux on the 13th of 

August last : finally, that of Miss H of Rouen, whom the king's attor- 
ney at Rouen was obliged to bring away from the establishment of St. 
Sauveur." — National, \&th March^ 1845. 

* The supervision of the convents should be divided between the judi- 
cial magistrates, the municipal magistrates, and the administration of 
charity ; the courts are too much occupied to have charge of it alone. If 
these houses are necessary as asylums for poor females who earn too httle 
even in an isolated life, let them be free asylums, like the Beguinages of 
Flanders, with a well-known rule like that of the Beguinages. 



(161) 



CHAPTER VI. 

The jSbsorption of the Will. — Rule of Actions^ Thoughts^ the Will. — As' 
similation. — Transhumanaiion, — To become the God is another Pride.-'^ 
Want of Power, — Pride and Concupiscence. 

If we are to believe politicians, happiness consists in ruling. 
They sincerely think so, since they accept in exchange so 
much fatigue and misery, such martyrdom frequently, that 
even the saints perhaps would never have accepted it. 

Only we must rule truly. Is it ruling, to make ordinances 
which are not executed ; to send, with great effort, and as a 
supreme victory, one law more to sleep in the bulletin of laws, 
near its thirty thousand sisters ? 

It is nothing to ordain acts, if, first of all, one is not master 
of the thoughts •, in order to govern the world of bt)dy, we 
must will that of mind. Behold what says the thinker, the 
powerful writer, and he thinks to rule. He is in fact a king, 
at least to posterity. If he is truly original, he is in advance 
of his times, he is put aside. He will reign to-morrow, after 
to-morrow, throughout ages, and always more absolute. To- 
day he will be alone; each success costs him a friend. He 
acquires new friends — I am willing to believe them to be ar- 
dent, innumerable ; those whom he loses are doubtless of less 
value, but they were those whom he loved ; he will never see 
the others. Labour, disinterested man, labour on ; thou shall 
have for a reward, a little noise and smoke. Are not the 
virtuous well paid? King of the time which has not come, 
thou wilt live and die with empty hands. On the border of 
that unknown sea of ages, thou hast gathered a slioll which 
thou carriest to thy ear, to listen there to a slight noiije in 
which thou thinkest tiiou hearest thy name. 

See this one on the other hand . . . this priest, always say* 
14* 



162 TYRANNY OVKR THE SOUL. 

ing that his kingdom is on high, has adroitly obtained the 
realities here below. He allowed thee to go on at thy ease, 
seeking for unknown worlds. He has seized on this, thy 
world to thee, poor dreamer ! that which thou loved, the 
nest to which thou thoughtest to return and arm thyself. . . . 
Accuse no one but thyself, it is thy own fault. Thine eyes 
turned towards the aurora, thou hast forgotten to spy out the 
first rays of the future. Thou thyself returnest a little too 
late, and another has now the dear little place, in which thou 
hast left thy heart. 

The thoughts do not always govern the inclinations. One 
cannot secure these, except by the will itself; not a general and 
vague will, but a special, personal one, which attaches itself 
with perseverance to a person, and truly rules him, because it 
conforms him to its image. 

This it is to rule over a soul. As a price of one such 
royalty, what are all thrones } What is dominion over the 
unknown crowd ? . . . The truly ambitious have not hesitated 
to despise it. They have not dispersed their efforts in the ex- 
tension of a vague and feeble power which loses itself in the 
extension. They have looked rather to the solidity of power, 
its intensity, its unchangeable possession. 

The end thus pointed out, the priest has a great advantage 
in which none can equal him. He has a matter for a subject 
which surrenders itself to him. The great obstacle to other 
powers is, that they do not understand those on whom they 
are operating *, they see the exterior ;* the priest sees the in- 
most heart. Whether skilful or of moderate acquirements, by 
the sole virtue of terrors and hopes •, by the magic key which 
opens the world to come, he also opens the heart. That heart 
desires to open itself to him ; all its fear is, that it may con- 

* The confessional even incomplete, as it appears before the judge, infi- 
nitely enlightens the moralist. The painter of morals, Walter Scott, was 
a clerk of the court ; Fielding a commissary of police, or judge of th» 
peace, &c. 



A VOID FILLED WITH TWO LETTERS. 163 

ceal something. The heart does not entirely know itself, but 
even where it is ignorant, the priest still sees, and he pene- 
trates farther, by comparing the revelations with those of ser- 
vants, friends, and relatives. From all these lights he can, if 
he is skilful, form a luminous fire, which, concentrated on 
an object, illumines every part of it so well, that he knows not 
only the actual existence, but the future, reading from day to 
day, in instinct and sentiment, that which to-morrow will 
be thought. He then knows truly that heart, he sees it and 
foresees it. 

An unique science ; which would still remain inexplicable 
without a last word. If it knows its subject at this point, it is 
the same as if it had made it. The director makes the direct- 
ed ; the latter is his work, and he becomes at length the same 
man. How ? Should not the former know the ideas, the 
wishes which he himself has given birth to ; which are his 
own ? A transfusion takes place, under this incessant action, 
between these two persons ; in which the inferior receiving 
every thing from the other,* is constantly getting rid of her- 
self. Daily feebler and idler, she places her happiness in no 
longer even wishing ; with seeing herself throwing away and 
losing that importunate will by which she has suffered too 
much. Thus the wounded man regards his blood, his life 
flowing out, and feels lighter. 

What recompenses for this gushing out of moral personality 
by which you escape from yourself? What fills the void ? In 
two letters — he ! 

He^ the patient and wary man, who day by day, depriving 
you by little of yourself, substituting therefor a little of him- 
self, has gently subtilized the one, and placed the other in 

* She receives especially all the ill of the other, his negative side. Ex- 
clusive, malevolent, dry and hard. — Something of this is seen in the hard 
and ungrateful picture attributed to Zurbaran. — A man of brass laying his 
hand upon two women of lead. (Le St. Dominic at the Louvre, Collection 
Standish.) 



164 ASSIMILATION. 

its Stead. The soft and feeble natures of women, almost as 
fluid as those of children, easily lend themselves to the trans- 
fusion. She the same, who always sees him the same, takes, 
without knowing it, his mode of thought, his accent, his lan- 
guage. What did I say ? Something of his gait and his phy- 
siognomy. As he speaks, she speaks — as he walks, she walks. 
On only seeing her pass, he who knows how to observe, will 
see that she is he. 

But these external conformities are but feeble signs of the 
profound change which is taking place within. That which 
is transformed, is the within, and the farthest within. A 
grand mystery is accomplished, which Dante calls transhuma- 
nation. When a human being, laying the foundation without 
her own knowledge has taken, substance for substance, ano- 
ther humanity ; when the superior replaces the inferior, the 
passive has no more occasion even for direction, but becomes 
his agent. He^ still is, the other is not, save as an accident, a 
quality of his being, a pure phenomenon, a vain shadow, a 
nothing. 

We spoke but now of influence, of sway, of royalty. This 
is a different thing from royalty ; it is divinity. — It is to be the 
God of another. 

If there is in the world an occasion to become crazy, it is 
that. The thought of a man who has arrived at this, no mat- 
ter in what humility he may envelop himself, is that of a pa- 
gan — " Deus f actus sumP I was a man, and I am a god. 

More than a god — he may say to his creature, " God created 
thee so ; I have made thee other, so that, being no longer his, 
but mine, thou art I, my inferior self; who no longer distin- 
guishes me but to adore me." 

" Dependant creature, why shouldst thou not have yielded } 
God even yields to my word, when I cause him to descend 
to the altar* — Christ humbles himself, and docile comes at my 

* It is in the Thoughts of Origen, that the priest should be a Uttle God, to 
perform a function which is above that of angels." Le P. Fichet (a Jesuit) 



IMPIOUS PRIDE. 165 

bidding, my sign, to take the place of the bread which no 
longer is." 

We are not astonished at the furious pride of the priest, 
who, in his royalty at Rome, has frequently surpassed all the 
follies of emperors, despising not only men and things, but 
his own oath, and the word even which he pronounced infal- 
lible. The priest, able to make a God, could also make the 
odd even, that which was done as not having been done, that 
which was said as not having been said. . . . The angels fear 
such a power, and step aside with respect from before this 
man to look at him in passing.* 

Go, now vaunt your privations, your macerations to me — 
I am much moved. . . . Do you think that beneath that con- 
tracted robe, that meagre body, and in that pale heart, 1 do 
not see the profound, exquisite, and delirious joy of pride 
which makes the very being of a priest ? That which he car- 
ries beneath his robe, and hatches so jealously, is the treasure 
of terrible pride. . . . His hands tremble, a yellow lire lightens 
up his downcast eyes. 



Life of Madame de Chantal, page 615. — If you wish a Jesuit greater than 
Fichet, behold Bourdaloue. '* Although the priest is in his sacrifice only 
the substitute of Jesus Christ, it is certain, however, that Jesus Christ 
suhmils himself to him, that he is subject to hivi, and renders to him daily 
upon our altars, the most prompt and exact obedience. If the law did not 
teach us these truths, could we believe that a man could ever attain to such 
an elevation, and be clothed with the character that enables him, in fact, 
if I dare so speak, to command his sovereign lord, and cause him to de- 
scend from Heaven." 

* One of the new priests whom St. Francis de Sales ordained, frequently 
saw his good angel. On arriving at the door of the church he stopped. 
Some one asked him why he did so. lie ingenuously replied, *' that 
he was accustomed to see his good angel walk before liim, and tliat there 
this prince of heaven had stoj)])ed out of respect to his character, yieldifig to 
him this pre-eminence'^ IVIaupas dc Tour, Life of St. Francis ol Sales, p. 
199. Molinos said boldly, (Guida, lib. 2, chnp. 1,) ''If God had given 
angels to conduct men, ihey might be blinded by demons who hud trans- 
formed themselves into angels of light. Happily," &.c. 



166 MOCKING IRONY. 

Oh, how he hates all that resists him, all that hinders his in- 
finite from being infinite. How, from the bottom of his heart, 
does he desire the annihilation of it. . . . Oh, how diabolical 
is the hatred of the man who believes himself God ! 

Great suffering is attached to this great joy of being the 
god of another soul; all that thy divinity wants causes it 
to suffer horribly. You need not be astonished that he pur- 
sues with insatiable ardour the absorption of a soul which he 
hopes to liken to his own. You can easily comprehend the 
real and profound cause of that strange avidity, which wishes 
to see all, and to know all, great and small things, the princi- 
pal and the accessory, the essential and the indifferent; which, 
dissatisfied with envelopment, or exterior, addresses itself even 
to the bottom, and seeking a depth beyond, wishes to reach 
the substance. . . . Whatever it attains, it will say farther ! 
farther ! — still — more and more. Alas it acquires more, and 
there is still something beyond. Who can measure a soul! 
It peeps in corners which it does not know, (nor you no 
more,) spaces and depths. . . . This soul, which it appeared to 
you you had acquired, and which you thought you had entire, 
it conceals, perchance, a world of liberty which you cannot 
reach. 

That is humiliating, grievous, and almost causes despair. . . 
Oh what suffering — for a god not to have every thing, is to 
have nothing. 

There, then, in the midst of pride itself, an ironical voice is 
heard, mocking at pride ; it is the voice of Concupiscence, 
which until now was silent. " Poor god," it says, " if thou 
art not a god, it is thy own fault ; I have told thee, leave to 
me thy scholastic divinity, thy distingue of two natures, cor- 
poreal and spiritual. To possess is to have every thing — that 
has ownership, which it uses and abuses. In order that the 
soul may be truly thine, one thing is wanting — the body." 



(167) 



CHAPTER VII. 

Concupiscence. — Consequences of Absorption and Assimilation. — Terrors 
of the other World. — The Physician and the sick Woman. — Alternatives. — 
Citations. — Effects of Fear in Love. — To be able to do all^ and to abstain. 
— Dispute between the Spirit and the Flesh. — Death carries off the Living, 
— She will not revive. 

Let us remain for a moment on the borders of the abyss 
into which we are about to enter, and before descending, let 
us recall well where we are. 

The boundless rule of which we have spoken, would never 
sufficiently explain itself by the power of habit, aided by all 
the arts of seduction and inveigling ; it would be, above all, 
impossible to comprehend how so many men of ordinary at- 
tainments succeed in obtaining it. We must recall here what 
we have said elsewhere. If that power of death has so much 
captivation over the soul,, it is because it most frequently at" 
tacks it dyings broken down with worldly passions. Yield- 
ing to the flux and reflux of religious passions, the soul ends 
by finding neither strength nor nerve, any thing which enables 
it to resist. 

Who among us is there, who has not felt those moments in 
which violent action having battered our hearts, we hate ac- 
tion, liberty, ourselves ? . . . When the wave wliich rocked us, 
softly, traitorously, retires quickly and sharply, and leaves us 
dry upon the beach. . . . We remain there like a stone. . . . 
Never would the soul thus shocked, again move, if it were not 
without wishing it, raised up in the wave of Lethe. A low 
voice then says, '^Do not stir, do not move, do not wish ; let 
the will die." ''Oh! mercy, wish for me; this embarrass- 
ing liberty, whose weight bears me down so, behold it. I 
liand it over to you. — A soft pillow of faith, of infantine do- 
cility, is all that I now need. — Oh ! that I could sleep well ."' 



168 THE POWER OF THE PRIEST. 

And if it does not sleep, it is in a revery. Nervous, and 
trembling from weakness, how can it repose ? The soul is 
unwilling to act, but the imagination acts even without it, and 
this involuntary fluctuation is only the more fatiguing. Then 
all the terrors of infancy return to the sick man, and with a 
vividness which they have not for a child. The phantasma- 
goria of the middle ages which we had thought forgotten, then 
revives ; the whole black world of hell, exiled by our deri- 
sion here indemnifies itself, and cruelly revenges itself; this 
poor soul belongs to it. What would become of it, alas! if 
it had not for a bolster the spiritual physician, who nurses it 
and reassures it — " Do not quit me, I am afraid." — " Do not 
trouble yourself, you are not responsible for all that; God 
pardons these disordered movements in you ; they are not 
yours ; it is the devil who acts thus in you." — " The devil ! 
Ah! I perceived it; it seemed to me as if these singular and 
quick motions were strange to me. But what a horrible thing 
it is to be the sport of an evil spirit." — " I am here, do not 
fear ; hold fast by me, and you will go straight ; the abyss, it 
is true, is gaping on the right hand and the left; but in follow- 
ing this narrow bridge, God aiding us, on this edge of a razor, 
we will reach Paradise." 

What a. power does he possess who is thus necessary — con- 
tinually called upon to hold the two threads of hope and terror 
which draw along the soul at will ! Troubled, he calms it, and 
calm, he agitates it; it becomes weak gradually and the physician 
is stronger; he perceives it, he rejoices in it. It has for him 
to whom all natural joy is, interdicted, a sombre happiness, a 
sickly sensuality to exercise this power, to cause a flux and 
reflux, to desolate in order to console, to wound in order to 
heal and to wound again. '' Oh that she might be always sick. 
I suffer that she may suffer with me. It is something, at least, 
to have grief in common." 

But it is not with impunity that one receives these sighs, 
sustains this languishing head — ^he who wounded is wounded. 



m 



ABSOLUTION DEFERRED. 169 

The simplest in her outpourings, unwittingly says, frequently, 
things which scald him to the heart. He recoils from before 
this burning fire, which a hand so soft applies without know- 
ing it; he becomes indignant, irritated at himself ; he endeavours 
to make out of his trouble pious wrath ; he seeks to hate the 
sin, and he only envies it. 

How sombre he is to-day — see him mount the pulpit. — 
What is the matter with this man of God ? The zeal of the 
law devours him ; he bears all the sins of the people. What 
lightnings he causes — what thunders — is it the last judgment.? 
All bend their heads. One alone has received the blow ; she 
grows pale, her knees tremble ; the picture was but too accu- 
rate ; he who knows her even to the depth of her soul, has 
found, too easily, the terrible word, the only word which was 
right in this place. She alone has felt it ; she finds herself 
alone in the church, (the crowd has disappeared for her,) and 
alone she perceives herself rushing into the darkness, the black 
abyss — ''My father, stretch me your hand, I feel that I am 
giving way." 

Not yet, not yet — she must struggle, she must descend, re- 
mount a little, in order to descend the lower. She daily comes 
to him more woeful, more pressing. How she entreats him, 
how she insists. But she will not yet obtain the word which 
can reassure her. "To-day.^" No — Saturday. . . . And on 
Saturday he puts her off until Wednesday.* What, three days, 
three entire nights, in the same anxiety ? She weeps then like 
a child. No matter — he resists, lie leaves her, but he is trou- 
bled whilst resisting. It is a sacred pleasure of pride to have 
humbled this woman so beautiful, so disdainful, and yet he 
finds himself that he has been very hard upon her; he loves 
her, he has made her weep. 

* This tactics of adjournment is particularly admirable in drawing IVoni a 
woman a strange secret at llio confessional, which she is unwilling to tell, 
the secret of her husband, the proper name of her lover, &c. She always 
ends by telling what ihey want to know. 

15 



170 PROOFS OF AFFECTION. 

Barbarian, do you not perceive how the poor woman yields ? 
That she lowers herself at each approach ? What do you 
want ? Her fall ? But in this prostration of strength, in this 
distracted terror, in this abandonment of herself, is there not 
already every fall ? No, that which he wishes is that she 
should suffer like him, that she should resemble him in her 
grief, that she should be associated with him in her griefs and 
storms. He is alone ; then she must be alone. He has no 
family; she shall not have a family. He hates the wife and 
mother ; he wishes her as a lover — a lover of God ; he de- 
ceives himself in deceiving her. 

And in the midst of all this, all fascinated as she is, she is 
not, however, so blinded as you might think. Women, chil- 
dren are penetrating when they fear — they soon see what can 
reassure them. She, when suppliant, fearful, and faltering, she 
dragged herself at his feet, she saw, through her tears, the trou- 
ble she excited. They are troubled together, they are accom- 
plices. Both know, (without understanding from indistinct 
confusion, from passion,) that they have both been caught, 
he by desire, she by fear. 

Fear does much in love. The husband of the middle ages 
was beloved by his wife for his very severity. His humble 
Griselda recognized in him the right of the paternal rod. The 
betrothed of William the Conqueror, having been whipped by 
him, recognized him by this sign for her spouse and lord. Who 
has the right now ? The husband has not preserved it — the 
priest has ; he still uses it ; he always has the baton of autho- 
rity over woman ; he whips her, submissive and docile with 
spiritual rods. Who can punish, can pardon ; alone able to be 
severe, he alone has also, with a timid person, the supreme 
grace, clemency ; a word of pardon is of more avail to him in 
this poor affrighted heart, than years of perseverance could be 
with the most worthy. Mildness operates just in proportion 
to the severities, to the terrors, which have preceded it. No fas- 
cination is comparable with it. How can one struggle against 



THE FLESH AND THE SPIRIT. 171 

a man who, disposing of paradise, has still beyond that, hell, 
to cause himself to be loved ? 

That unforeseen return of kindness is a very dangerous mo- 
ment for her who, tamed by fear, her forehead in the dust, 
waits only for the thunderbolt — when this redoubtable judge, 
this angel of the judgment suddenly is softened. She perceived 
the coldness of the sword, she now perceives the warmth of 
the soft hand of a friend who raises her from the earth. It is 
too much for her ; she resisted fear, she falls before this mild- 
ness. 

* # * * # 

To have all power, and still abstain — slippery situation ! 
Who can be steady on a declivity ? 

Here is found in the way of concupiscence, the point to 
which the way of Pride always leads. 

Concupiscence, at first despised by pride as brutal and gross, 
becomes a sophist; it places before pride the terrible problem, 
before which desire, mingled with fright, blinks and turns 
away its looks. It looks without looking ; it places its hand 
over its eyes, but opening the fingers like the vigoginsa of 
Campo-Santo. 

" Is it certain that one would have the whole heart, if one 
had the body ? Will physical possession surrender to us those 
sides of the soul which heretofore were inaccessible ? Is not 
the spiritual domain complete, unless it embraces the other ? — 
Great popes appear to have resolved the question ; they be- 
lieved that the papacy implied empire, and that the pope, in 
addition to his rule over the minds, was a king over the tem- 
poralities." 

Against this sophism of the flesh, the spirit still struggles ; 
it is not wanting in a reply, " That the spiritual conquest, as 
soon as it is thus completed, ceases to be spiritual ; that the 
conqueror who wishes for every thing, the mind, cannot have 
all without perishing in his victory." 

The flesh is not embarrassed; it takes refuge in hypocrisy; 



172 DANGEROUS SOPHISTRY. 

it annuls itself, and becomes humble, in order to regain the 
advantage. " Is the body so great a thing, that we must dis- 
quiet ourselves about it ? A simple dependent of the soul, it 
ought to follow where it leads." . . . The mystics do not 
spare insults upon the poor body, the flesh. The flesh is 
a she-ass, said one, which we may beat . . . What matters, 
said another, this dirty rivulet to the soul, which rides on 
horseback high and pure, without even regarding it. But the 
worst refinement of the Quietists follows, " If the inferior part 
does not sin, the superior part is proud, which is the greatest 
sin ; then the flesh must sin, in order that the soul may remain 
humble ; sin bestowing humility, is a step upwards to hea- 
ven. " Sinned ? But has he sinned ? (depraved devotion here " 
refines the old sophism.) He lolio is holy hy essence^ being 
holiness itself, ahvays sanctifies. In the spiritual man, every 
thing is spiritual ; even that which in another is material. If 
in his upward flight, the holy man has still any obstacle which 
leads him back to earth, whatever inferior person frees him 
from it, performs a meritorious work, and is sanctified." 

Diabolical subtlety, which few avow openly, but which very 
many fondle and caress in their secret thoughts. Molinos is 
forgotten, but not Molinosism.* 

* This name of Molinosism gives the idea of an old forgotten system. In 
practice, it is a thing of all times, an instinct, a blind belief, which is natural 
to the weak, and which we may thus describe; — With the strong, every 
thing is well; with a saint, there is no sin. See the sick man if he is happy 
enough to have his physician dine with him ; behold him reassured, hardy ; 
he eats every thing without fear. I believe that real Molinosism is always 
a powerful means with simple people, A contemporary, Llorente, re- 
lates, (vol. iii. chap. 28, article 2d, ed. 1817,) that when he was secretary 
to the Inquisition, there was brought before that tribunal a Capuchin, who 
directed a community of Beguines, almost all of whom he had seduced by 
persuading them that they were not quitting the way of perfection. He 
said to each of them at the confessional, that he had received a singular 
grace from God. " Our Lord," said he, "deigned to allow me to see 
him in the host, and said to me, * Almost all the souls that thou directest 
here are agreeable to me, but especially such a one, (the Capuchin named 



DISPENSATIONS. 173 

Besides, false reasoning is scarcely necessary in the miser- 
able slate of revery in which a soul lives, when deprived of 

her to whom he spoke.) She is already so perfect, that she has conquered 
all passions except the sensuaUty which so strongly torments her. On this 
account, therefore, being desirous that her virtue should be recompensed, 
and that she should live tranquilly, I charge thee to give her a dispensation, 
but to use it with thee ; she shall not speak of it to any confessor ; that 
would be useless, since with such a dispensation, she cannot sin.* " Of 
seventeen Beguines of whom the community was composed, he bestowed 
the dispensation on thirteen, who were discreet for a long time ; one of 
them, however, was taken sick, believed herself to be dying, and revealed 
all, declaring that she had never believed in the dispensation, though she 
had availed herself of it. If the guilty man had merely pleaded guilty, he 
would have been let off with a very light punishment, the Inquisition 
being, says Llorente, very indulgent towards derelictions of that kind. But, 
in avowing the thing, he maintained that it had been well done, he having 
the power from Jesus Christ. " What,'* they said to him, **is it likely 
that our Lord would appear to you to grant you a dispensation of a precept 
of the decalogue ?" — " He dispensed with the fifth precept to Abraham, in 
commanding him to slay his son ; and with the seventh to the Hebrews, by 
granting them permission to rob the Egyptians." — " Yes, but these were 
mysterious acts favourable to religion." — "And what more favourable to 
religion than to tranquillise thirteen virtuous souls, and to lead them to per- 
fect union with the divine essence." — I recollect, says Llorente, to have 
said to him, ** But, my father, is it not astonishing that this virtue should 
have met in the thirteen young and handsome ones, and not in the four 
others, who were ugly or old?" He coldly replied, "The Holy Spirit 
blows where it will." 

The same author in the same chapter, whilst reproaching the protestanls 
for having exaggerated the corruption of confessors, admits " That in the 
sixteenth century the Inquisition had imposed on women the obligation of 
denouncing culpable confessors, but that these denunciations were so nu- 
merous, that they granted a dispensation to the penitents not to denounce 
them." Trials of this kind were held with closed doors, and the condem- 
nations were stifled in the small secret auto da f6. — Llorente, after deducing 
the number of trials from the registers, compares the morality of the different 
religions orders, and finds by the figures a very natural result, which we 
might divine without figures. They abused their penitents just in propor- 
tion to the amount of money or liberty they had to seduce other women. 
The poor and recluse monks were dangerous confessors ; the monks who 
had more freedom than the secular priests employed the hazardous mrans 
of the confessional less, because they found elsewhere easy opportunities. 

15* 



174 MYSTIC DESPAIR. 

its will and its reason. Out of herself and good sense, having 
lost all connection with reality, always plunged in a miracle, 
intoxicated with mysticism, glutted with the devil, it is weak 
even to death ; but the excess of this weakness is enough to bring 
on a fever. Terrible contagion ! — You believed that this death 
would always follow you, and it is you who follow it; it will 
carry off the living ! 

There expire all the subtleties which desire contributed. — 
A livid day penetrates. Sophism finds no more clouds to ob- 
scure it. You see too late, that you have done more than you 
wished to do ; each of those suppressed powers, that will, 
that mind, that heart, which now are no more, would, if they 
had remained alive, have availed you. . . . Broken, withered, 
extinguished — the destroyed being feels no more ; lays hold 
on nothing, and gives nothing hold on it! You wished to 
clasp love — you have stifled it. That which had life, is 
now annihilated. You would wish it to live ; to resuscitate it. 
— Miracles have ceased. It is, and always will be, a cold 
shade, without any life to reply to you; press it if you can, 
you would perceive no sensation. — That will be your despair. 
You can feign every thing ; say every thing, except one word, 
which I defy you to pronounce without grief, the sacred name 
of love. 

Love — but you have killed it! — There must be a person to 
love ; and you have made a thing of that which was a person. 

Proud man ! who daily summons your Creator to descend 
upon the altar, you have acted precisely contrary to the Crea- 
tor; you have destroyed a being! 

You, who know how to make a god out of a grain of wheat; 
was it not a god also which you had not long ago in this cre- 
dulous and docile soul ? The internal god of man, which is 



Those, who in their capacity of directors, saw females tete a tete at the 
nouses of either the one or the other^ had less need to corrupt them at the 
altar. 



PUNISHMENT. 175 

called liberty, what have you done with it? You have placed 
yourself in its stead ; in the place it occupied, of that power by 
which man is man, I see nothing ! 

Well ! let this void be your punishment. Deep as you may 
penetrate, low as you may descend ; you will find but a void ; 
nothing that wills^ and nothing that can. There all has per- 
ished that can be loved. 



PART THIRD. 



THE FAMILY. 



CHAPTER I. 

Schism in the Family. — The Daughter ^ by whom educated. — Importance 
of Education^ and Advantage of the first Occupation of the Mind. — Influ" 
ence of the Priest over Marriage^ which he keeps often after Marriage, 

The drama which I have attempted to follow, does not al- 
ways, thank Heaven, go to the last act, the submission of the 
will, and the extinguishment of personality. One cannot well 
observe where this drama stops, under the thick mantle of re- 
serve, discretion, and hypocrisy, in which all the world in 
black is enveloped. The clergy should for other reasons re- 
double their watchfulness over themselves in the bustle of the 
world.* 

We must look out of the church to find the best light to 
discover what it conceals. We must seek it in the house, in 
the family. Regard it carefully. There is in the household a 
reflection, unfortunately too clear, of what passes elsewhere. 

We have already said, that if you enter a house in the eve- 
ning, one circumstance will almost always strike you. The 
mother and the d?inghter are of one council on one side ; the 
father is on the other, and alone. 

* A watchfulness which might be greater, with advantage, if we may 
judge from the puhUc adventures of tlie abb^s C. and N., who notwith- 
standing this pubhcity, do not arrest their course, as two o<hers, of high 
rank, and well known, have done. 

177 



178 THE BESIEGED HUSBAND. 

What is the key to this ? It is that there is yet another per- 
son at that table, whom you do not see, ready to contradict 
and deny all that the father may say. That father returns 
home fatigued with the present, and full of cares for the future, 
and in place of repose and refreshment of his mind, he must 
renew the struggle with the past. 

There is nothing in this to astonish us. By whom are our 
wives and daughters educated ? We repeat it — by our ene- 
mies, by the enemies of the Revolution and of the future. 

Do not cry out at this. Do not cite to me such and such 
of your sermons. What does it signify that you make such a 
democratic parade in the pulpit, if by covert and underhand 
means — by your little books which are reeled off by thousands 
and by millions — by your teaching, which is all concealed — 
by your confessional, the spirit of which transpires — you 
show what you are, the enemies of liberty. Subjects of a 
foreign prince, who deny the French church, what have you 
to say in France ? 

Six hundred and twenty thousand girls are educated by the 
nuns, under the direction of the priests. These girls will pre- 
sently be women — ^mothers who will deliver to the priests, as 
far as in their power, their daughters and their sons.* 

The mother has already succeeded as far as her daughter is 
concerned. By a persevering siege she has vanquished the 
repugnance of the father. A man who, every evening, after 
the agitation of the business and the war of the world finds 
the war renewed at home, can perhaps stoutly resist for some 
time, but he must yield at last. Otherwise he will have nei- 
ther time nor cessation, repose nor refuge. The house is un- 
inhabitable. The wife, having to expect only rigor at the 
confessional so long as she remains unsuccessful, will make 
against you, every day and every hour, the war which is made 



* M. Louandre gives the number at six hundred and twenty-two thou- 
sand in his conscientious statistics. Revue des deux Moiides, 1844. 



THE WIFE LANGUISHES. 179 

against her — a war calm perhaps — calmly sharp, calmly im- 
placable and active. Muttering at the fireside, sulky at the 
table, she hardly opens her mouth to speak or to eat. Then 
in bed comes the inevitable repetition, close to the husband's 
ear, of the lesson she has learned. The same tick of the 
same clock — who could hold out under it ? What must he 
do ? — Yield or go mad. 

If the man should be so firm, resolute, and persevering, that 
he holds out against this protracted siege, the wife perhaps 
can sustain herself no longer. ^' How can I see her so 
miserable, languishing, unquiet, and ill ? She fails visibly. 
I must save my wife !" Thus speaks the husband to himself. 
If he is not conquered by his wife, he is vanquished by his 
heart. The son on the morrow quits his school for VEcole 
Chretienne — the college for the little seminary. The daugh- 
ter is led by the triumphant mother to that good boarding- 
school which the good abbe confesses and directs. She hardly 
spends a year there, when the boarding-school ceases to be 
worth any thing. She is yet too worldly. She is then sent 
to the sisterhood of which the abbe is the superior, into the 
convent, under his hand and under his key. 

Aflfectionate father — be tranquil. Make sure of rest for 
your two ears while you may ; for your daughter is in good 
hands, and you will not lack contradiction till the day of your 
death. A girl of spirit truly, who, above all things, has been 
carefully armed against you, she will take, whatever you may 
say, the other side of the argument ! 

What is most curious is, that generally the father is not 
ignorant that they are educating his daughter to oppose him. 
Wonderful man, what do you expect then ! '' Oh, she will 
unlearn all that — time, marriage, the world will efiixce it." 
Yes, for a moment, but only to reappear. With the first dis- 
appointments of the world it will all return. When she grows 
older, she will refer the subject to a granddaughter. The 
mother's master now will be the daughter's then, for your 



180 THE GRANDDAUGHTER TEASES. 

contradiction, good man, in your last days, and for the de- 
spair and annoyance of her father and her husband. You will 
then again taste the fruits of this education. Education 
should be a small matter — a feeble influence, that the father 
can without danger leave to his enemies ! 

What — to possess the mind with all the advantages of the 
first occupancy ! To write on the blank and unsullied leaf what 
he chooses, and for ever ! For, know most assuredly, that 
the most you can do is to write afterwards over what was first 
written — to cross, in the length what was traced in the breadth. 
Confuse you may, but you cannot obliterate. It is the mys- 
tery of the young memory that, easy to take impressions, it 
is tenacious in holding them. The early love which seemed 
effaced at twenty, reappears at forty, aye at sixty. It is the 
last, the remainder that old age will keep when all else is 
forgotten. 

"But the habit of reading — the press — our great modern 
power, which succeeds the early teaching, is it not an educa- 
tion much more efficient than that ?" Count not upon it. The 
action of the press in part annuls itself It speaks with a 
thousand voices, which reply to, and mutually annul each 
other. But early education makes not so much noise — it cla- 
mours not, but quietly reigns. See, in that little class, with- 
out other witness than his pupils, without control or contra- 
diction, a man speaks, the absolute master, invested with 
ample power to punish and chastise. His voice alone, with- 
out the rod, is sufficient. The little trembling and believing 
creature, just from her mother's arms, receives the words 
which are impressed upon her gentle mind, and fastened there 
as with rivets of brass. 

If this is true of the school, how much more of the church; 
particularly in relation to the girl, who is the more docile, 
more timid, and more faithful to first impressions. What she 
hears for the first time in that grand church, under those echo- 
ing vaults, by the voice of that sombre man, then to her the 



WHO GIVES THIS WOMAN? 181 

object of awe-struck fear — the words which he addresses to 
herself — deem not that she will ever forget them ! Even if she 
could forget, they would be every week relearned. Woman 
is alUher life in school ;* finding again in the confessional her 
school-bench, and her school -master ; the only man whom 
she fears, the only one, as we have said, who in our present 
state of manners dares to insult a woman. 

What an advantage he possesses in the convent where they 
place her, of having the first employment of her young spirit. 
It is he who imposes upon her the first severities ; he grants 
the first indulgences also, which are so like tendernesses ; he 
is the father, friend of the child plucked away from its 
mother's arms. The confidant of her first thoughts will be 
for a long time mingled with all the thoughts of the young 
girl. He has had the unique and special privilege, which the 
husband might envy, the virginity of her soul, the dawnings 
of her will. 

It is of that person, young men, that you must first ask the 
girl in marriage, before speaking to her parents. Make no 
false step here, or you will lose her. You shake the head, 
haughty children of the age — you will never bow the knee ! 
I would inquire then if you would live alone, taking philoso- 
phy as the companion of your bosom ? Otherwise, from this 
place I can see you, with all your valorous discourse, creep-^ 
ing furtively, with a step between a dog and a wolf, gliding into 
the church, and kneeling before the priest. There you were ex- 
pected — there you are caught. You have not there a thought 
about you. You are in love, poor fellow, and do precisely 
as they would have you. 

I wish only that this girl, thus purchased, was really yours. 
But with that mother and that priest, the same inllucnce, for a 
moment diminished, will soon resume its strength. You have 



* Especially by the catechisms, '* of perseverance,** '* Month of Mary^*^ 

&c., which rctiiiii the woiiian under the hand of the priest, 

16 



182 MINUS. 

a woman minus soul and heart ; and you will learn too late 
that he to whom she has given, knows how to keep them !* 

* We add to this chapter a fact, which, compared with what has been 
said in a preceding chapter on the ecclesiastical pohce, that the clergy never 
lose sight of the women who are educated in the convents under their di- 
rection. One of my friends, whose high character and position give his 
testimony great weight, told me, recently, that having placed a young re- 
lative in a convent, he learned from a sister that they sent to Rome the 
names of the pupils who most distinguished themselves ! The centraliza- 
tion of such reports, concerning the daughters of families of consequence, 
in the Catholic world, might greatly facilitate combinations, and singularly 
serve the ultra montane policy. The order of the Jesuits may thus become 
a great marriage bureau. 



(183) 



CHAPTER II. 

The Woman. — The Husband does 'not associate the Wife with himself j and 
rarely knows how to initiate her into his habits of Thought. — What the mu" 
tual Initiation should be. — The Woman consoles herself with her Son — he 
is taken from her. — Isolation and Ennui. — Jt pious Young Man. — The 
Priest and the Secular ? Which j in one day^ is the Man of Penance. 3 

When first married, the husband has the only opportunity, 
truly to win his wife to himself; to expel foreign influence, 
and to establish his own for ever. Does he improve it ? Rarely. 

It is necessary at the commencement of their union, when he 
has much influence over her, that he associate her in his men- 
tal movements, in his business and opinions ; that he initiate 
her into his purposes of life ; that he should establish in his own 
activity an activity for her. 

When the wife wishes with her husband, acts, thinks, and 
sufl^ers with him, this is marriage. The worst that can hap- 
pen to her is not that she suflfers, but that she languishes alone 
in weariness, living apart from her husband, like a widow. — 
Who can wonder that she becomes estranged from him ? Oh, 
if in the first hours when she became his, by making her par- 
ticipate in his ambition, his thoughts, and his inquietudes, they 
had lived together, moved by the same thoughts, he would 
have kept her heart ! They might have become more firmly 
attached even by grief. To sufli3r together is to love tlie more. 

The French woman, more than the English, tlie German, 
or any otlior, holds herself ready to second tiie man, and to 
become for him not merely a wife, but a companion, friend, 
associate, the alter ego. it is only by the comnKMciiil chisses 
that this disposition is improved. Sec in the mercantile quar- 
ters, in the dark stores of iht; Rue dcs Lombards,^ or La Ver^ 
rerie^ the young woman, often rich by inheritance, who, ne- 



184 DIFFERENT PURSUITS. 

vertheless, in her little separate counting room, keeps the 
books, and directs the boys and the clerks. With such a com- 
panion the husband will prosper. And the fireside is also a 
gainer. The husband and the wife, separated by the occupa- 
tion of business during the day, unite so much the better at 
evening in a common thought. 

Although it is not possible, in other careers to associate the 
wafe so directly with the life of the husband, still she might 
be put in communication with his thoughts at least, if not a 
participant in his occupations. What renders this difficult, as 
I have not attempted to conceal, is the spirit of speciality which 
goes through our different professions, no less than the sciences. 
It pushes us more and more into minute details, while woman, 
less persevering, and, moreover, less required to make precise 
investigations, remains among generalities. The man who 
seriously wishes to initiate woman into his life — and he surely 
should so wish if he loves her — has need of much patience 
and gentleness. The two fcome together as opposite poles, 
charged by contrary modes of education. How, then, can you 
expect your young wife, all intelligent as she may be, to 
understand you at the first word ? If she does not under- 
stand, it is most usually your own fault, your holding 
always to the dry, abstract and scholastic forms to which your 
education has habituated you. She, remaining in the sphere 
of common sense and of sentiment, knows nothing of your for- 
mularies, and rarely, very rarely, do you know how to trans- 
late them into human language. This demands address, deter- 
mination, and mind. It requires, permit me to say. Monsieur, 
more intellect and wit than affection. 

At the first word which his wife does not comprehend, the 
husband loses patience. " She is incapable — she is too frivo- 
lous !" He withdraws himself from her, and the mischief is 
done. On that day he lost much. If he had persisted, he 
would have drawn her with him gradually — clothed her with 
his life — and there would have been a true marriage. What 



A TRUE HELPMEET. 185 

a companion has he lost — what a trustworthy confidant — 
what a zealous auxiliary! In that wife who, left to herself, 
seems little capable of reflection, he would have found, in his 
moments of difficulty, a light of inspiration — often a sage 
counsellor. 

I have touched here a great subject, and should like to dwell 
upon it. But I cannot. I will say a word only. Man in 
modern life — a victim to the division of labour, condemned 
often to a narrow speciality, in which he loses the sentiment 
of general life, and falls into a mental atrophy, has need at 
home of a fresh and serene spirit. Less specialized and more 
in equilibrium, such a spirit in his companion might draw him 
from his exclusive occupation in his particular pursuit, and 
restore to his mind the gentle perception of the harmony of 
the great and beautiful. In this time of sharp competition, 
when the day is full of efforts, from which one returns home 
less wearied and broken with labour than with disappoint- 
ments, a man needs at his family hearth a woman to cool and 
refresh his burning temples. To this workman — (are we an^ 
thing else in our specialities?) this man of the forge, wearied 
with his blows upon iron, she might open the living springs of 
the beautiful and good — of God and of nature. He could 
drink of the eternal waters in these moments — forget himself 
— become refreshed, and acquire new courage. Thus strength- 
ened by her, he could give her, in turn, his powerful hand — 
lead her into the world with him — into his path of new ideas 
and of progress, the path to the future !* 



* Think not that it is possible to rest a moment at any one point. One 
must ascend or descend. If it be necessary that all our life should be pro- 
gress, this necessity rules more in the natural family than in the artificial 
family of the convent. When the woman closes as woman, she com- 
mences as mother, then as grandmother. She has always new mi)tive3 
to recommence her moral education, and push it siill farther Woman 
should continually rise — for it is thus that she attaches herself to man. 
Nature has given her as steps in this upward progress, not the mere dircc 

16* 



186 THE SON. 

Unfortunately the case is not thus. This beautiful ex- 
change of heart and mind, which can alone make marriage 
real, I have so far been unable to find. The husband and wife 
endeavor at first to interchange ideas with each other, but pre- 
sently each is discouraged. The husband, dried up by the 
arid wind of his afiairs and business, becomes mute ; he can- 
not draw a word from his heart. The wife, astonished and 
unquiet, interrogates the husband ; but questions irritate him, 
and she dares no more to speak to him. As he would be 
tranquil, the wife in a revery at the fireside, absent in mind, 
in her turn, dreams her romance alone, and leaves him at his 
ease in his taciturnity. 

She has a son — to her heart, before and above all. To him, 
could she be permitted, she would entirely devote herself. 
When she goes out, she gives him her hand, and presently her 
arm — he is a younger brother, a little husband. How large 
he has grown already — how time slips away ! It is a pity that 
he growls so fast — now come separation — Latin — tears ! Is it 
necessary that he should be a savant ? Is it absolutely ne- 
cessary, that he should enter at once into the violent paths of 
competition — that he early acquire the bad passions which 
we cultivate with so much care — pride, ambition, envy, hate ? 
The mother would have him wait; he is yet young, and 
the colleges are so harsh ! He would learn all the better at 
home, if they would only leave him with her ! She will pro- 
vide him instructors — she will, herself, direct his studies ; she 
will go no more abroad. — " Impossible, Madam ! impossible ! 
you would make him a little woman." The fact is, that the 
father, though he dearly loves his son, finds that in a regu- 
lated household, this bustle and noisy agitation, are intolera- 
ble. He is incapable of enduring any thing like it ; fatigued, 
exhausted, and in ill humour, he wishes silence and repose. 

Sage husband, who would lightly treat the objections of the 

tion of a single man, but the successive association of better generations, 
ill each of which the mother is reproduced, renewed, and improved. 



WOMEN DESERTED. 1&7 

mother ; feel you not that it is, perhaps, as by an instinct of 
virtue, that she desires to keep her son with her — the pure and 
irreproachable witness before whom she had always been 
holy ? If you knew how beneficial the presence of that child 
has been to the household, you would desire to retain him 
there. While he remained, the house was blessed in him. 
While he is present, the family ties can hardly become relax- 
ed. What led to marriage and the household ? The son 
whom you hoped. And what has held it together ? The son 
whom you have received. He is in the family, the object and 
the end ; the bond of union ; the mediator — I was about to 
say the all. 

It cannot be too often repeated — the woman is alone. She 
is alone, having a husband — having borne a son, she is still 
alone ! Once at college, she sees him no more, except by per- 
mission, and at long intervals. After college, other prisons 
await the young man, and other exiles. 

A brilliant soiree is given — enter into the well-lighted sa- 
loons, you see women seated in long rows, separated, and en- 
tirely alone. Go about four o'clock to the Champs EJysees^ 
you see the same women winding slowly among the paths, 
each still alone in her carriage. Those in their carriages, and 
others in their shops — are alike alone. 

In the life of women who have the misfortune to have no- 
thing to do, there is nothing which may not be explained by 
the words isolation and ennui. Ennui which creates a lan- 
guishing and negative disposition of the mind is, to a nervous 
woman a positive evil, which it is impossible to support. It 
fastens on and gnaws its prey. Whoever suspends tlie evil, a 
moment, seems to the sufferer a saviour.* Ennui makes them 



* Even love itself is loss a remedy for ennui than has been imn^ineil ; 
our fiiscinating modern romances liavc had an eflbct entirely contrary to 
what la supposed — ft Is thai of diminUhinf!; the passions. — Real passion 
loses much, whatever may be said of it, in the face of these powerful pic- 
lures — it Bufl'ers by the comparison. The woman soon finds her personal 



188 DANGERS OF ENNUI. 

receive as friends, persons whom they kAow to be enemies — 
curious, envious, slanderous. Ennui makes them endure the 
romances in periodical portions, which are cut off at the very 
instant where the interest commences.* Ennui leads them to 
those miscellaneous concerts, when the diversity of styles is a 
fatigue to the ear. Ennui draws them to a sermon which two 
thousand persons hear, and not one would read. Not even the 
luke-warm productions, half worldly and half devout, with 
which the neo-catholics inundate the faubourg St. Germain, 
find any readers among these poor victims of ennui. They 
support, those delicate and weakly women, a compound of 
musk and incense which would disturb the stomach of a per- 
son in health. 

One of our young authors e^^plains in a romance, all the 
advantage which there is in commencing gallantry with gal- 
lant devotion. This procedure is not new. I could only wish 
that those who have renewed the Tar tuff e^ would give him a 
little more wit. 

That is the great lack of these modern hypocrites. Women 
listen to their veiled declarations, and their equivoques of love, 
as a duty, and to win salvation. She who from a friend the 
most valued, will feel scandalised with the merest word of 
friendship, will patiently permit, in a young Levite, this lan- 
guage of double meaning. A woman of mind, who knows 
the world — has read and seen — and possesses experience, does 
not wish to see, in a case like this. If the man has little talent, 
is stupid, and not agreeable — still " he has such good inten- 
tions !" and Father such a one responds, " he is a good young 
person." 

The fact is, that whatever priest, apropos of devotion, speaks 

romance feeble and dim in the presence of Indiana and of Valentine. Love 
soon fades and loses its tints, in the eyes of a woman of mind upon whose 
experience falls this pitiless light of romance. 

* I speak of the form in which they are published— not in disparagement 
of the admirable talent which some writers have shown. 



A CONTRAST, 189 

of love, it is a merit in him ; and even when he speaks in a 
manner feeble and insipid, it is a merit still with a woman ripe 
and ready to hear. The husband, should he be eminent, has 
always the fate of a man of real occupation ; all engrossed, as 
they say, with material interests. And, in truth, he is occu- 
pied with the interests of his family ; he is providing for his 
children in the future *, he wastes his life to support the luxury 
in which the lady lives, beyond his fortune. 

Perhaps the husband might answer, that however material 
the result of all this labour may be, it has with him a moral 
interest ; that of the heart. Perhaps he will add, that in oc- 
cupying himself with material interests, for the profit of others, 
in our assemblies, in our tribunals, and in a thousand different 
positions, he may prove himself more disinterested, and, con- 
sequently more spiritual, than all the second-hand dealers in 
spirituality, who make the church an exchange. 

A contrast is indicated here, to which attention cannot be 
too much drawn. In the middle ages, the spiritual man — 
man of penance — who mortified the flesh, was the priest. By 
the studies to which he gave himself wholly, by watches and 
prayers in the night ; by continual and excessive fastings, and 
frequent monastic bleedings he mortified his body. To-day 
there remains little of all that — the church has become all gen- 
tle. The priests eat and drink as we do ; and if life is medi- 
ocre and mean with a great many, at least a living is generally 
assured to them. We may see, furthermore, the liberty of 
spirit with which they occupy the leisure of the women with 
frequent interviews. 

Who is the man of mortification now, in these times of 
severe labour, ardent effort, and burning rivalry? It is the 
layman — the secular. Full of care, he labours day and night 
for his family, or for the state. Engaged often in a routine of 
business, too tiiorny and perplexing for his wife -.wuX rliiUlrcn 
to become interested in it, he i«innot conununicate to tluiu 
what fills his mind. At the hour of repose even, he speaks 



190 THINKING ALWAYS. 

little, but follows his train of thought. Success in business, 
in discovery, in science, is to be had only at the high price 
which Newton speaks of — " Thinking always?'^ Solitary 
among his own, he who achieves their glory or their fortune, 
does it at the risk of becoming a stranger to them. 

The man of the church — the priest, — on the contrary, if we 
are to judge by w^hat he has published, now studies little and 
invents nothing. Nor, on the other hand, does he carry on 
that war of mortifications against the flesh which the middle 
ages imposed ; fresh and at ease, he can follow two occupa- 
tions at once. By his assiduity and honied words, he wins 
the family of the too much occupied man, and meanwhile, 
mounting the pulpit hurls at the worldling the thunders of his 
eloquence. 



(191) 



CHAPTER III. 

77ie Mother,— For a long time she alone can take charge of the Child.— ^ 
The Child guarantees the Mother^ the Mother the Child. — The Mother gua- 
rantees the Youth^ and protects his native Originality.— Public Education^ 
and the Father himself^ check that Originality, — Maternal Feebleness. — 
T'he Mother wishes to make a Hero. — Heroic disinterestedness of maternal 
. Love. 

We have said : If you wish the family to be strong against 
the foreign influence which would dissolve it, leave the child 
at home as long as possible. Let the mother educate him, 
under the direction of the father, until the moment when he 
is claimed for public education, by that great mother, his 
country.^ 

If the mother educates her child, one thing will certainly 
result from it. It is that she will remain very near her hus- 
band ; having need of his counsels, and wishing continually 
to obtain from him new information. The true idea of the 
family will be realized, which is the initiation of the child by 
the mother, and of the mother by the husband. She wishes 
to retain her child — he is part of herself, rooted in her heart. 
When they would deprive her of him to educate him at a dis- 
tance, it is a wrong. He weeps — she weeps, he exceeds her in 
grief In these tears, where weakness only is generally seen, 
there is a serious lesson. It is that he has still need of her. 

He is yet a nursling. Intellectual nourishment, like that of 
the body, should at first reach the cliild in tlie form of milk, 
fluid, gentle, sweet, Uving.'\ The woman alone can minister 

* And even then it is a great advantage if the mother can see him every 
evening. She will notice at a glance, whatever has changed in him for the 
better or worse, — things which the preceptor, or the father even, would not 
have observed for a long time. 

t This term excludes all the science of truinpcry, mnemonics, «fcc. 



192 SCHOOL-MASTER AND CHILD. 

it. Men would give a crust to the tender child, whose aching 
teeth had scarce pierced through, and strike him if he declines 
it. Give him milk still, in the name of heaven, and he will 
drink it willingly.* 

Who could have believed that the day would come, when 
men would thus charge themselves with the cares and nour- 
ishment of nurselings ! Leave them to the women ! It is a 
beautiful sight to see, the infant cradled in the arms of the 
man. But, have a care ! The little thing is fragile, and in 
your gross hands may be broken !| 

Between the school-master and the child the dispute is this. 
The man delivers science by methods proper to man, in the 
shape of fixed rules, by classifications well defined, under 
angular forms, as if crystalised. These prisms of crystal, 
however luminous they may be, wound by their points and 
angles. The child yet gentle, and like a fluid, can for a long 
time receive nothing which has not the fluidity of life. The 
master is angry and fretful with his slowness, and knows not 
how to understand him. One person alone in the world has 
the delicate tact in management of which a child has need. 
Gestation, incubation, and education, are words which remain 
for a long time synonymes — much longer than this world has 
fancied. 

The influence of the woman over the child whose mind she 
developes, is greater and much more decisive than that which 
she exercised over the nurseling. I know not that it is in- 
dispensable that a woman nourish her child from her breast; 
but it is necessary, I am very sure, that she feed him from her 

* The painter of the sybils and of the prophets, Michael Angelo, him- 
self a prophet, has indicated in his manner that the initiation of children 
belongs to the mothers. At the feet of these terrible origins, he has de- 
picted the early education of children, by mothers under the most natural 
forms. 

1 A writer, full of thought, says that we should found schools for girls 
above those for boys. Each girl, who becomes a woman and a mother, 
will become a school in herself. 



MODERN SCHOLASTICS. 193 

heart. Chivalry showed its knowledge that the most power- 
ful agent of education is love. That alone did more to ad- 
vance humanity in the middle ages, than all the disputes of the 
scholastics could do to retard it. 

We also have our scholastics — the spirit of hollow abstrac- 
tions and verbal disputes. We can resist this influence, only 
by prolonging the influence of the mother, by associating the 
woman with education, and giving to the child a beloved 
teacher. Love, they say, is a great master. That is true, 
above all, of the greatest, purest, and most profound of all 
loves. 

Blind and imprudent that we are, we take the child from the 
mother when he is the most necessary to her. We deprive 
her of that dear occupation for which God has made her, and 
we are then astonished that this woman, thus cruelly wronged, 
now languishing and idle, surrenders herself to base dreams ; 
that she submits herself anew to the old yoke, and that often 
while imagining that she remains faithful to duty, she listens 
to the tempter, who assumes to speak to her in the name of 
God. 

Be prudent; be wise; leave her son to her. It is necessary 
that a woman should always love. Leave her then that more 
than lover whom nature has given her — him whom she had 
preferred to all lovers. While you are absorbed in your 
aflfairs, (your passions, perhaps ?) leave to her the arm of that 
slight and tall young man — she will be proud and happy. 
You fear that, watched over too long by a woman, he will 
become a woman. But it is she who will become a man, if 
you will but leave her her son. Try it, and you will be your- 
self astonished at the change. From little journeys on foot to 
long rides on horseback, nothing will deter her, believe me 
She commences in good courage the exercises of the young 
man, she returns to his age, and renews herself in that new 
life. You yourself, on returning to your home, and seeing 
your Rosalind, will think you liavc two sons. 

17 



1 94 INDIVIDUALITY. 

It is a general rule to which I have hardly seen an excep- 
tion, that superior men are always the sons of their mothers^ 
whose moral imprint, as well as features, they inherit. Does 
this surprise you ? I will add, that without her the son will 
never become what a man should be. The mother alone is 
patient enough to develope th^ young creature, by managing 
his freedom. It is necessary to take care, great care, how you 
place a child, young still, and too pliable under th-e hand of 
strangers. The best intentioned, by weighing too heavily 
upon him, risk a bending of the shoulders, from which he will 
never recover. The world is full of men who, from having 
carried a heavy yoke too long, remain slaves all their days. 
Too forced and precocious an education breaks in them the 
something — the genius and ingenuousness, which is the flower 
of manhood. 

The sacred ingenuousness and freedom of character which 
are born with one — by whom are they now respected .'' It 
is almost always in these that one is wounded ; if he is 
blamed, it is on account of these. Hardly does young nature 
awaken and flourish in its liberty, when all, astonished, shake 
their heads. " What, a living flower f Who has ever seen 
the like before ? Let us stifle it at once !" The iron cramps 
are preparing — be wise, oh flower — wither and withdraw 
thyself! 

This poor little development, against which all are united 
with one accord — what is it, i pray you, but the characteristic, 
special and original, by which that being would be distinguished 
from others, and add a new character to the great human variety 
— a genius, perhaps, to the illustrious line of genius! The 
sterile spirit is almost always a plant which, too closely fasten- 
ed to the dead wood which serves as its support, has dried like 
it, and becomes more and more assimilated in character with it. 
Well subdued, and very regular, you need fear here no eccen- 
tricity. The tree is a barren one, which will yield no fruit. 
. Do I wish to say that support is useless — that the young 



a 



EDUCATION. 195 

plant should be left to itself? Nothing is further from my 
thoughts ! I believe, on the contrary, in the necessity of two 
educations — that of the family, and that of the country. Let 
us point out their different influences. 

Public education, better conducted now certainly than ever 
before — w^hat are its purposes and its end ? It tends to har- 
monise the child vv^ith his country, and with that great coun- 
try, the world. It is in that that its propriety and necessity 
consist. It proposes first to give him the fund of ideas com- 
mon to all ; it is intended to render him rational that he may 
not be in discordance with those he meets ; it prevents him 
from jarring in the great concert in which he is to take his part. 
It subdues him that he may not be too erratic in his lively 
sallies. 

Such is public education. The education in the household 
is that of liberty — but even there, are obstacles and checks to 
the natural impulse. The father subdues that impulse; his 
foresight imposes on him the duty of early introducing that 
young steed into the furrow in which he must labour. Too 
often it happens that the father misunderstands his child, and 
consulting exterior fitness above every thing else, seeks the 
beaten and profitable track, rather than that to which nature 
has called him. How m,any a high-mettled courser has thus 
been condemned to run round in the ring ! Poor liberty ! 
Who then has eyes to see, and a heart to direct thee ? Who 
will have the patience, the untiring indulgence to support thy 
first steps, and to encourage thee, when jaded by the stranger, 
the indifferent, the father himself.'* God alone wlio has made 
that being, having made, understands him well enough to see 
and love the good, even among the bad. God, I say, and the 
mother in his guidance, for here she is his instrument. 

When it is recollected how short is the average term of life, 
and how great a number of men (he in youtli, we should hesi- 
tate how we abridge that iirst and best period, in which tlie 
child, free under its mother, lives under grace, and not under 



196 DA^'GERS OF OVERTASKING. 

the law. But it is true, I think, that the time which we 
call lost, under the mother's direction, is exactly the period, 
shigle, precious, and once past, irreclaimable, where, amid 
puerile sports, sacred genius essays its first flights. It is thus 
that the wings put forth, and the eaglet aspires to fly — oh, 
abridge not this precious period ! Drive not, before the time, 
this new man from the maternal paradise. Wait yet a day — 
to-morrow will be quite soon enough to bend his back to la- 
bour, and break him to the furrow. To-day leave him there 
yet, that he may receive strength and life, and breathe with a 
good heart the generous air of freedom ! 

An education too exacting, zealous, and disquieting is a great 
danger for children. We are continually increasing the weight 
of study, till the inner man succumbs. Such a person is all 
Latin, another is all mathematics. Where is the Twan, I pray 
you ?* 

It was precisely the man that the mother loved and directed. 
It was the man that she respected in the steps of the infant. 
She seemed to withdraw her action, her eye even, that he 
might act, and become strong and free. But at the same time 
she surrounded him always, as with an invisible embrace. 

There is a peril, I know, in this education of love. What 
love would do, is to immolate self, sacrifice every thing, inte- 
rests, convenience, habit, life, if necessar}\ The object of all 
this sacrifice may, in his childish egotism, receive all this de- 
nial as a thing of course, and permitting itself to be treated as 
an idol, inert and immoveable, become but the more incapable 
of action, as the more is done for him. 

This actual danger is balanced by the ardent ambition of 
the maternal heart, which places in the child an infinite hope, 
and burns to realise it. Every mother, whatever may be her 

* If there is danger that the moral man will succumb in schools too heavy 
and too learned, what shall we say of those where the teachers directly at- 
tack the morals, by teaching the pupils dishonour and treachery among 
themselves ? See a subsequent note. 



METERNAL FAITH. 197 

deficiencies, has a fine faith ; that her son must be a hero, in 
action or science, it matters not which. All that has failed 
her, in her sad experience of the world, she looks forward to 
realise in him. All the miseries of the present are redeemed 
in advance by that splendid future. All is miserable to-day ; 
but he will become 4great, and all will be great with him. Oh 
poetry ! Oh hope ! Where are the limits of the maternal 
thought ! " I am only a woman — but here is a man! I have 
given a man to the world !" One thing only embarrasses her. 
Will the child be a Bonaparte, a Voltaire, or a Newton ? 

If it becomes absolutely necessary that he leave her, that 
he be carried far away — she consents. Must she pluck out 
her own heart — she will do so. Love is capable of every 
thing, of sacrificing itself even. Yes, let him go ; let him follow 
his destiny, and accomplish the splendid dreams with which 
she was visited, while he rested in her bosom, or upon her 
knees. And then, incredible as it may seem, this timid woman, 
who, but yesterday, hardly dared that he should walk alone, 
lest he might fall, has become so brave that she envies him in 
careers the most hazardous, upon the sea, or even in the rude 
wars of Africa. She trembles, and is ready to die with fear, 
and yet bears up. What can thus sustain her ? Her faith ; 
the child cannot be lost, because he is to be a hero. 

He returns — and how changed! What! is this manly sol- 
dier my son ! Leaving her a child he has returned a man. 
He is in haste to be married — and with this comes another 
sacrifice, not the least that she has made. He must then love 
another. The mother, to whom he has always been the first 
and the last, must take the second place in his heart hence- 
forward — a place how little, in his passionate love for another! 
But she seeks and chooses her rival — slie loves her because 
of him — she attires her, she puts herself among the train 
who conduct them to the altar, only asking there that she 
may not be forgotten ! 

17* 



(198) 



CHAPTER JV. 

Jjoct. — Ziorf dtratfs,^ wot absorb*, — False Theory cf our Mtenmrktj mtd 
their dangerous Praetke^ — Lose vtsftes to create itsdf an Eqwd^ wkidk 
freetif loves. — Love in the Worlds and in the cirS World. — Love in Ae 
Family Kttle und^tood in the Middle jSges.—Beiigion if the Fireside, 

Ix the preceding chapter have I, seduced by a pleastoter 
SDbject, lost all sight of the argument which I have followed 
in my book? 

] beliere, on the contrary, that I hare thrown a strong light 
upon my subject Maternal loTe, (that miracle of heaven,) and 
maternal education^ aid us in comprehending what all educa- 
tion should be, all direction and all initiation. 

The singular advantage which the mother possesses in edu- 
cation is, that being herself above all, devoted, disinterested, 
she respects the growing personality in the little thing which 
becomes a person. She is the defender of his individuality. 
She wishes, at all expense to herself, that he may act accord- 
ing to his genius, rise and increase in knowledge and strength. 

What could we wish in direction and true education ? Pre- 
cisely what love would have, in its highest and most disin- 
terested idea — that the young creature rise. Take the word 
{felever) in its full sense, as expressing the volition of the 
child, and the aid of the teacher. She wishes that the chfld 
may raise himself above himself, to the level erf her who gives 
tiie aid, above that if possible. The strong, far from absorbing 
the weak, wishes to render it strong, and lead it to equality. 
It tends to the development, not only of the things in which 
teacher and pupil agree, but of those in which they di£^; 
supporting that which has an original free action, exciting that 
in which the pupil is sluggish, and making continual appeals 



MOTHERS VS. PRIESTS. 19§ 

to the individual, in that which is most personally and indivi- 
dually his — the will. The dearest wish of love is to sustain 
the moral force, the will of the person loved, to the highest 
degree, that of heroism. 

The mother's ideal of education is the true one. It is to 
make a hero ; a man powerful in acts, and fruitful in works — 
who will^ who can^ who does. 

Let us compare this ideal with that of ecclesiastical educa- 
tion and direction. This would make a saint, not a hero ; it 
believes the two opposed. It deceives itself in the idea of 
holiness, making it not harmony with God, but absorption in 
him — the extinguishment of the soul, and its loss of volition. 
All their theology, when pressed to a conclusion, must, unless 
they be content to remain in an inconsistency, lead, by an in- 
vincible tendency, to this abyss, it was in that that it ended, 
as it must end, in the seventeenth century. The great direc- 
tors of that time, who, coming last, had the analyses of tlie 
subject, demonstrate plainly the result, which is extinguish" 
merits (aneantissement) — the art of extinguishing activity, 
will, and individuality. " Became a nothing ?" " Yes, but in 
God." And is this God's will ? The Creator, it would rather 
seem that he should will that his creatures resemble him — that 
they do and create. You misunderstand God, the Father. 

This false theory is convicted of falsehood in its practice. 
Following it closely, we have seen that it reaches an end con- 
trary to its promise. It promised to absorb man in God, and 
in return for that absorption, promised that he should partake 
of the infinite into which he enters. But in reality it only 
absorbs man in man, in infinite littleness ! The directed is 
extinguished in the director — of the two persons there re- 
mains but one. The other has perished as a person, and lias 
become a thing. 

Devout education, treated in our First Part, among the most 
faithful directors, and witli women very pious, gives two re- 
sults, which I will stale thus : 



200 WHAT IS LOVE? 

1st. A holy man, who for a long time speaks to a holy 
woman of the love of God, converts her infallibly to love. 

2d. If this love remains pure, there is a hazard still, entirely 
personal. It is whether the man is a saint; for the woman 
directed, losing little by little all her own will, must be at 
length entirely at his mercy. It remains then to say that a 
man who possesses all power, and uses none, a miracle of 
abstinence, is continually renewed among us. 

The priest has always believed himself, in his own judg- 
ment, a great master of love. Habituated to govern himself, 
to dissimulation and windings, he believes that he alone pos- 
sesses the true art of managing the passion. He advances 
under cover, by the paths of equivoque. He proceeds with 
safety, and is careful to proceed so uniformly at all times in 
his gait, that nothing unusual in his manner betrays his pur- 
poses. He laughs under his hood at our transported vivacity, 
and our imprudent frankness — at our flights without rule or 
measure, which carry us beyond our intentions. 

If love is the art of entrapping the soul — of reducing it by 
authority and by insinuation, of breaking it by fear, to betray 
it by indulgence, in such a manner that, wearied and exhaust- 
ed, it permits itself to be covered with an invisible net : — if 
such be love, then certainly the priest is its most able teacher! 

Beautiful teachers — learn of the ignorant, the artless, what, 
with all your petty arts, you have never known : learn what 
is love, that sacred thing! There should be a heart sincere, 
for this is the first condition, honor and truth in the means by 
M^iich you win the heart ; and the second is generosity, which 
would not enslave, but enlarge and strengthen that which it 
loves, to love in liberty — free to love or not. Come, listen 
to two seculars, two comedians, Moliere and Shakspeare. 
In this they are wiser than you. One who loves, is asked 
concerning the loved object: "What is his height?'* ''Just 
as high as my heart^'^'^ is the answer.* 

* Shakspeare — As You Like It. 



MOLIERE. 201 

This noble formula is that of love, and that of education, 
of all instruction ; equality sincerely wished, and the desire 
to raise the loved object to itself, and make it an equal. 
" Just as high as my heart." 

Shakspeare has said, and Moliere has done. He has been 
in the highest degree the " Genius of Education,"* who desires 
to raise and free ; who loves, in equality, liberty and light. 
He has punished as a crime the unworthy love which captures 
the mind by art, isolating it in ignorance, and holding it a serf 
and a captive.f In his life, conformed to his works, he has 
given the noble example of that generous love which wishes 
the loved object should be the equal of the lover ; which for- 
tifies it, and gives it arms against himself This is love — and 
this is faith. It is faith that sooner or later the emancipated 
being must return to the most worthy ; for is not he the most 
worthy who would be freely loved ? 

Nevertheless we must weigh well the import of the serious 
words, his equal^X and all its dangers. It is as if the Creator 
said to the creature, whom he has made, and whom he has 
emancipated : " Thou art free. The power by which thou 
wast enlarged holds thee no longer. Apart from me, and held 
only by the heart and by gratitude, thou canst freely act and 
think, and even against me, if thou hast the will." 

Behold the sublimity of love, and why God pardons many 
things to charity. It is that in his infinite disinterestedness, wish- 
ing to make a free being, and to be by that being freely loved, 
he permits the danger of the disloyalty and ingratitude of the 



♦ Ingenious and very just remark of E. Noel. 

t In the Ecole des Ftmmes, and elsewhere. 

X In this connection, the words *' his equal," are of course to he taken 
with very hmited signification. If there were any equivalent, we should 
Bubstitute it, as in the original French ihe word cgal in a comparison, has 
a much more limited sense than our word equal. We might have made a 
circumlocutory rendering, but that would have destn)yed the connection. 
We make this note ratlier to exonerate the author from absurdity, than 
because we fancy the reader would not at once make the limitation. 



202 A PERMANENT MIRACLE. 

object Power to act includes power to love, and the contin- 
gency of the diversion of the love of the creature from the 
creator. That hand, once feeble and now become strong, has 
been armed, and it may be turned against the love that armed 
^it ; in the emancipation there is nothing reserved. 

Extend the idea of love from the love of the mother to uni- 
versal love — to that which makes the life of the natural and 
of the civil world. In the natural, life the most active con- 
tinually evoked from kingdom to kingdom — is lighted and 
ascends. Love sustains, from the profoundest depths, the 
beings which it emancipates, and arms with liberty, with 
power to do good or evil, to act even against that which has 
created and made them free. 

And in the civil world, is not the work of love charity, 
patriotism, call it what you will, analagous to the work of 
love in the natural ? It calls to social life, to political power, 
those who had before no life among men. It raises the feeble 
and poor from their rude hovels, where they struggle with 
hand and foot against misfortune, and places them in liberty 
and equality. 

The inferior degree of love is that which would absorb — 
the superior that which would sustain life, a life energetic and 
fruitful in deeds. It finds its pleasure in raising, augmenting, 
making a new creature of the loved object. Its happiness is to 
see arise under its breath a new creature, which may either 
serve or injure its benefactor. 

" But is not love in this disinterestedness a rare miracle — 
one of those short instants when our selfish egotism is illumi- 
nated by light from heaven ?" 

No — the miracle is permanent. You see it — you have it 
under your eyes, and turn away from it. It is rare, perhaps, 
with the lover, it is ever present with the mother. Man, who 
hast sought God from heaven to the abyss^ — seek him at thy 
fireside ! 



EPILOGUE. 203 

The divine idea of Christianity has placed the family rela- 
tion upon the altar. There placed, there it was left during 
fifteen hundred years. In the middle ages, the poor dreaming 
monk* saw it in vain. He could never understand the mother 
as an agent of instruction. He contemplated the Virgin| — he 
has left us Our Lady. 

What the monk could not, thou canst do. Oh ! man of mo- 
dern times. Let it be thy work ; no longer shutting thyself 
up in proud abstractions; no longer disdaining infants and 
children, who could direct thy life — let it be thy work to 
teach them science and the world. They will teach thee^Gou, 

Let the family circle be reinstated. The shattered edifice of 
religion and patriotism will then resume its place. That 
humble hearth-stone, in which we see now only the good old 
domestic Lares, will become the corner stone of the temple, and 
the foundation of the city. 



My look is sealed, but my heart is not, even against the 
priests. One word then more. 

I have spared them — they have attacked me. Well, even 
now, it is not the priests that I attack. This book is not 
against them. 

* The middle ages, always too high or too low, never knew any middle 
path. The triumph of the woman is all ideal in Beatrice, and the passion 
of the woman all too low in Griseldis, who even as a mother resigns her- 
self. The same ignorance of the middle path is annoying in the sermons 
of the present day. They are always too high or too low — woman is a 
saint or a prostitute. They never speak of the wise matron — the mother 
of a family. This spirit of exaggeration renders their language singularly 
sterile. 

t In the poetry of the monks, of celibates, one sees this every where. 
They make the virgin younger and younger, more and more a child, less 
and less a mother. In a thousand logcndi?, vain and indelicate, they over- 
looked what might have been a fruitful theme for the middle ages — the 
educatum of Jtsus by lii.s mother. It Is evident that he had the viatvnial 
heart. lie wept for Lazarus. lie said, " Suflcr the lillle children to come 
unto me." 



204 MODERN INQUISITION. 

It attacks only their slavery ; the situation in which they 
are held, against nature — the preposterous conditions which 
render them at once unfortunate and dangerous. If it should 
have any effect, it will prepare for them the day of deliverance 
— of freedom of the body, and freedom of the mind. 

Let them say and do what they choose, they shall never 
prevent me from interesting myself in their fate. I impute 
nothing to them. They are at liberty neither to be just, nor 
to love, nor to hate ; they receive from their superiors the 
words which they must speak ; their sentiments ; and their 
thoughts. Those who thrust the priests against us, are the 
same persons who are at this moment organizing against 
them, the most cruel inquisition.* Though they may become 
more and more unfortunate and isolated, they will exert so 
much the more their unquiet activity, though they have nei- 
ther fireside, country, family, nor heart, still can they labour. 
To serve a dead system, it is necessary that the dead, the wan- 
dering dead, labour without sepulchre, and without repose. 

With the words " unity of the universal church," they have 
been compelled to quit the paths of the church of France. — 
They have discovered now what that Rome is : merely a Jesuit 
bishop. The universality of mind (which is the only true 
universality) Rome lost a long time ago, if she ever had it. It 

* It appears from the details which a journal gives on the last ecclesias- 
tical shifts, that the greater part ofthe bishops impose upon their priests the 
Jesuitical rule which they call the manifestation of conscience ; which com- 
pels them to confess to a confessor appointedhy the bisJiop, and to denounce 
one another to the higher ecclesiastical authorities. The obhgation is ex- 
tended to the women whom the vices of the clergy have compromised. 
See La Bien Social, a Journal ofthe Secondary Clergy, November, 1844. 
That Cathohc journal, at the end of its first year, has a subscription of three 
thousand priests. See also an excellent article from the Reveil de V Alny 
November 17, 1844, and the courageous letters of M. I'Abbe Thions, in 
the Bien Public of Macon. When one still speaks, with such a mountain 
upon his heart, he must possess good courage. — We name with respect 
those two saints, the Alignols. But what are they doing on the road to 
Rome ? What do they expect to find in that empty sepulchre ? 



NOTRE DAME. 205 

has, in part, been discovered in modern times, and that in 
France. For the last two centuries, it may be said that morally 
France has been the pope. The authority is here, under one 
form or another. Here, by Louis XIV., by Montesquieu, Vol- 
taire, and Rosseau, by the Constituante and the Code Jfapo- 
leon, Europe has had her centre. All other nations are ec- 
centric. 

The world goes on, flying on, very far from the middle ages. 
For the most part, people have forgotten that period ; I shall 
never forget it. The miserable parade that the present priests, 
most unworthy representatives of that era, make under my 
eyes, will not change my heart toward that sombre and me- 
lancholy time, with which so long I have been on terms of 
friendship ; for which I have so long suflered.* The sympa- 
thies which I retain for the past, the ashes of which I have re- 
awakened, prevent my being indifferent to those who most 
unfaithfully occupy the places of the priests of that era. I hate 
not, but simply compare, and am sad. I cannot pass before 
Notre Dame, that I do not say in the words of the ancient, 
" O miser am domum^ qiiam dispart dominaris domino P"^ " Oh 
melancholy edifice, how widely changed are thy masters !" 

I have never been found insensible to the humiliations of 
the church, nor to the sufferings of the priest. I liave had them 
all present to my imagination, and my heart; I have followed 
tl^ unfortunate man through the career of privations, the 
miserable life into wliich a hypocritical authority has dragged 
him. In his solitude by the hearth-stone, melancholy and 
cold, where often he weeps at night ; let him be sure that there 
is a man who weeps with him, and that I am that man. 

Who would not have pity upon this victim of social contra- 
dictions? The hiws direct liim in contrary palhs, as if they 
would make him tlieir sport. The canonical law says, No ; 



♦ Since 1833, T have felt the wish, ns I then expressed the hope, of the 
trnnsforination oftlic priiieiple of tlic middle ajres. ** It will transform it- 
self to live yet again." History of France, last page of Vol. II. 

18 



206 NO AND YES. 

the civil law says, Yes. If he takes the civil law as serious, 
the man of the civil law, the judge, from whom he expects 
protection, acts the priest, seizes him by his robe, and sends 
him degraded under the yoke of the canonical law. Let the laws 
be mude to accord, that we may find some authority for our 
conduct. If this is a law, and the other, totally opposed, may 
also be considered a law, what must he do who believes both 
are sacred t* 

How deeply have I felt for those unfortunates ! How ear- 
nestly have I wished that they could come out of a state w^hich 
denies nature, and the progress of the world ! Oh ! that I 
could, with my ow^n hands, relight the hearth-fire of the poor 
priest ; restore him to the first rights of man ; replace him in 
ti-uth and life, and say to him, " Come out of that deadly shade, 
and seat thyself with us in God's own sun-light ! 

Two men have always sadly touched my heart — two soli- 
taries — tw^o monks — the soldier and the priest. I have often 
reviewed in thought, and always with sadness, these two great 
sterile armies, to whom mtellectual nourishment is refused, or 
doled out with so sparing a hand. Those from whom the 
heart is severed, should have strengthening food for the mind. 

What will be the remedies for these serious evils .? We 
essay not to designate them here. The means and the process, 
time will discover, when the day arrives. This, however, one 



* The very Catholic clergy in the south of Germany, have formally said 
that the vow of celibacy, with which this law disagrees, should cease ; that 
the church may associate herself in the progress of the times with the true 
modern stale, which is marriage, while that of the middle ages, inideaat least, 
was celibacy. The situation of the priest, alone and not alone, free and 
not free, in the midst of a world at discord with him, suggests the idea of a 
man condemned to a cell which he must carry every where with him. 
Nothing could be more certainly fitted to make a man mad. (See the beau- 
tiful articles of Leon Foucher) All the world has read the history of that 
Benedictine Abb6 (of Tyrol, if I remember) who wished not to violate his 
vows, and not being able to obtain remission of them, stabbed himself to 
the heart, 



THE TRUE PRIEST. 207 

may prophesy — that the day will come, when the words sol- 
diers and priests will designate, not so much different classes, 
as different ages of men. The word priest in its origin, indi- 
cated an old man. A young priest is nonsense. 

The soldier, that is to say, the young man, after the school 
of infancy and the school of business, goes to prove him- 
self in the great national school of the army, to strengthen 
himself before taking the fixed seat of marriage and a family. 
The military life, when the state becomes what it should be, 
will be the conclusion of his education, mingled with studies, 
voyages, perils, experience in which may be of profit in the 
new family which the man will found on his return. 

The Priest, on the contrary, in the highest sense, should 
be an old man, as he was in the beginning ; or at the least, a 
man of maturity, who had learned life, knew the family rela- 
tions, and had acquired a knowledge of the great family of man. 
Sitting among the elders, like the ancients of Israel, he could 
communicate to the young the treasures of experience. He 
should be the man of all — the man who belonged to the poor ; 
the peaceful arbiter, who could prevent litigation ; the moral 
physician, who could prevent evils by well-timed warning. 
For such a duty, no young man, unquiet and stormy, would 
answer. It should be a man who had seen much — learned 
much — suffered much ; and who had found out at length, in 
hk own heart, the words of sweet counsel, which should in- 
troduce us to the world to come. 



I 



APPENDIX. 



Note. — We place here the Authorh Preface to the Third Edition^ as an 
Appendix ; giving it this position in preference to any other, because that it is 
in some sort an answer to remarks provoked among the adverse party ^ by pre- 
vious editions. 



PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 

This book has produced an effect upon our adversaries for 
which we were unprepared. It has cost them the loss of all dis- 
cretion, and of all self-respect — nay, more than this, of all that re- 
spect for the sanctuary of which it is their duty to give us an ex- 
ample. In their pulpits, in open church, they preach against a 
living man — indicating him by his name, and designating this 
book and its author for the hatred of those who know not how, 
and never will read the work. From their lanching these furious 
preachers against us, it is evident that the chiefs of the clergy 
must have felt themselves sorely attacked. 

We have — it would appear — trenched upon a point too dan- 
gerous. Woman — this is the theme on which they are found so 
sensitive! The spiritual direction and government of woman is 
the vital part of ecclesiastical power, which the priests will defend 
even to the death. Strike, if you please, at any thing else, but not 
at that ! Attack their dogmas until you are weary — they will 
ridicule your zeal,* and continue their cold and lifeless declama- 
tion. But if you think to touch the reserved point — menace the 
citadel — the affair becomes serious. The priests forget themselves, 
and lose their discretion. 

It is indeed a melancholy spectacle to see pontiffs and elders of 
the people gesticulating, stamping, foaming at the mouth, and 

* 'J'hcy will hardly even tnke tlu^ trouble to notice mere abstractions. A. 
younfr eclectic, had dechired himself against all reliu^ioiis rev(dations — he 
woulci scarcely t()l(Mato relii];ion as a provisional insliiiition. Hul at the 
same lime h(^ attac'ked an adversary of the priesthood — and the gratoiul 
priests curess tlie i'roc-thinlvcr, and hug him to ilicir hearts. 

18* 209 



210 APPENDIX. 

grinding their teeth like madmen.* My young friends, do not re- 
gard them. Epileptic convulsions have sometimes a contagious 
effect on the spectator. Leave them — let us withdraw, and re- 
sume our pursuits without loss of time. " Art is long — Life 
short." 

I recollect to have read, in the correspondence of St. Charles 
Borromeo, that one of his friends, a grave person in authority, 
having censured I know not what Jesuit, who was entirely too 
fond of confessing female devotees, the ecclesiastic visited him in 
a fury to inflict condign punishment. The Jesuit felt his own 
strength — a preacher in high vogue — a favourite at court — and a 
still greater favourite at Rome, he believed that he had no need 
of moderation or prudence. He gave himself full vent — was vio- 
lent and insolent to the utmost of his ability. His grave censor 
remained calm and unmoved. The Jesuit lost all command of 
himself, and descended to the basest insults. The other, firm and 
collected, made no reply, but permitted the priest to rave and 
threaten at his pleasure, and to gesticulate, uninterrupted, with 
both hands and arms, while he looked steadily and curiously at 
his feet. "^ Why did you watch his feet so narrowly ?" asked a 
witness of this interview, after the priest had taken his leave. — 
** Oh,^' replied the censor, still without changing his grave coun- 
tenance, " it was because I expected every moment to see the 

* This language will not appear exaggerated to those who have read 
the furious libel of the bishop of Chartres. One journal demands of me 
how I have had the self-command to refrain from attacking him in reply. 
But his foolish violence is far less criminal than the whming insinuations 
which our adversaries make in their books and journals, and in the saloons. 
They attribute to me the deeds of other men of whom I am not even a re- 
lative, (for instance Miiheletof Languedoc, the poet and soldier in the re- 
storation.) They pretend to believe, though I declared to the contrary at 
the end of my preface to the first edition, that this book was my course 
of lectures for 1844, and caused a small petition to come from Marseilles 
praying my removal from the professorship. But far from wishing to stifle 
the voice of my opponents, I have desired for their expression of opinion 
all the liberty I have claimed for my own. In my lecture of the 27th Feb- 
ruary, 1845, I said: 

" I see among you the greater part of those who have aided me to main- 
tain from this chair the liberty of speech. We respect this liberty in our 
adversaries. This is not a concession of chivalry — but a point of simple duty. 
It is. moreover, essential to the cause of truth that the utterance of objec- 
tion should not be suppressed. It is necessary that arguments should be 
freely brought forward on all sides. Trust to the truth that it will prevail 
and conquer. We pass away — truth endures and triumphs — but so far as 
its adversaries can interpose their influence, the triumph of truth is clouded 
with doubt." 



APPENDIX. 211 

hoofs betray themselves. That demoniac might well prove to be 
the tempter inhabiting a Jesuit!" 

A prelate weeps in advance over the fate of the priests whom 
we would consign to martyrdom. This martyrdom is what they 
themselves, high and low, protest against, to wit, marriage. 

We think, without recalling the too well known inconveniences 
of the present celibacy of the priest, that if he must be the coun- 
sellor in the family, he should understand his duty. As a hus- 
band — or better yet, in widowhood, of mature age and experience — 
having Zoved and/eZZ, he would at once possess more heart and more 
wisdom. The domestic affections throw a light upon the mysteries 
of our moral nature, which no conjecture or theory can supply. 

It is true that the defenders of the celibacy of the clergy have 
drawn latterly such a picture of marriage, that many may here- 
after fear to adventure in it. These apologists of the clergy have 
advanced upon all that modern romancers and socialists have said 
against the legal union. Marriage, which lovers imprudently 
seek as a new bond of affection, would appear by these new re- 
presentations only a state of warfare. People unite to quarrel. 
Truly it were impossible to place the efficacy of the sacrament 
lower than this. The sacrament of union, according to these 
teachers, serves no purpose, and accomplishes nothing, unless a 
third party come always between the united — I should say be- 
tween the combatants — in order to separate them. 

It has usually been supposed that for a marriage two persons 
sufficed. This is changed. In the new system, as it has been 
propounded, there are three constituent elements : — First, the 
Man, strong and violent ; second, the Woman, by nature feeble ; 
and third, the Priest, born a strong man, but studying to render 
himself woman-like, that he may resemble the wife, and thus, 
partaking of the nature of both, may interpose himself between 
them — between those who should become one! This is an infi- 
nite departure from the idea which, from the commencement of 
the world, has been entertained of marriage ! 

But this is not all. It is avowed that the intervention spoken 
of is not an impartial favouring, now of the husband, and now 
the wife, as either has need. No! it is the wonum alone to 
whom the priest addresses himself — it is her with the prolectiou 
of whom he charges himself, against her natural protector. He 
is to be leagued with her to transform the husband. 



212 APPENDIX. 

If it were well established that marriage, instead of being 
the union of two persons, is a league of one of the two with 
a stranger^ wedlock would become rare. The alliance of two 
against one seems a confederacy a little too unequal — few would 
have temerity sufficient to tempt such a chance. Marriages of 
money, even now too frequent, would then become the only ones. 
People hopelessly in debt could not always escape marriage — the 
insolvent, for instance, who should be placed by a merciless cre- 
ditor between the alternatives of a wedding or a prison. 

To transform, re-create, refound — to change man's nature — a 
great and difficult undertaking! But it would be meritorious 
only if effected with the free will — not if performed by a sort of 
domestic persecution — a war of the fireside. Above all, it is ne- 
cessary to know whether, by this transformation, amelioration is 
intended. Is it purposed to ascend ? Is it to elevate man's na- 
ture in the moral world — to make him become more virtuous, 
more wise? If so, speed the work! But what if this transfor- 
mation prove to be a change for the worse ! 

The wisdom which the priests propose for us does not include 
science. "Science — literature — what do they import? They 
are things of luxury — ornaments of the mind, but foreign to the 
soul!" We shall not contest this here, but pass over the vain 
distinction which opposes the mind to the soul, as if ignorance 
were innocence — as if it were possible, with a literature poor, 
faded, and inane, to possess the gifts of the soul and of the heart. 

But where are the evidences of heart among these men? Will 
they show us a shadow of such a possession? How does it hap- 
pen that those who charge themselves with cultivating its develop- 
ment in others, give themselves a dispensation from exhibiting 
any signs of a heartT The living fountain of a noble heart, when 
one truly possesses it, cannot be concealed. It will burst out, do 
what you will. Choke it in one place and it forces its way forth 
in another. One might as well strive to shut up the sources of 
great rivers — to obliterate the Rhone and the Rhine. We acknow- 
ledge that such images as this are ill-cited in this connection. In 
what a dry, barren Arabian desert am I placed by the considera- 
tion of this subject! 

Let us enter a church. Behold a multitude — a crowd of peo- 
ple, who, weary of wandering, enter here panting and thirsty of 
soul. They wait with open mouths, in the hope of words of re- 



APPENDIX. 



213 



freshing. Will there fall upon their parched lips one poor drop 
of dew 1 

A man mounts the pulpit — a decent and proper man enough, 
but dry and heartless. He will not touch the sympathies. It suf- 
fices him to prove. He designs a grand scaffolding of argument, 
with lofty logical pretensions, and great solemnity in his premises. 
From these he jumps to glaring conclusions — the middle term al- 
ways being — ^Uhese things cannot be demonstrated!" Oh, why 
then, most lame logician, open with such a grand flourish o[ proofs! 

Well then do not attempt to prove ! Love ! love your kind, and 
we will hold you acquitted of all! Say but one word of heart to 
feed that crowd ! All those heads you see surrounding your pul- 
pit — those reverently uncovered heads, are not blocks of stone — 
they represent so many lives and souls. These form the rising 
generation — to-day they are ihe future — to-morrow they will be the 
ivorld. Happy natures — full of energy— inexperienced and as 
God made them — running hitherto undaunted, without thought or 
heed, upon the edge of precipices. Their youth — their future — 
their danger — their hopes encompassed with peril — do none of 
these things move you? Will nothing open your paternal heart? 

A little beyond see that brilliant crowd — women and gay flow- 
ers. Beneath all this splendor which rejoices the eye there is, oh 
how much suffering! One word, I pray you, in your public 
ministrations for them ! They are your daughters — those who, 
you know, with so much trusting resignation come each evening 
to weep at your feet. They trust ib you — they tell you all — you 
know their wounds of spirit. Find then for them a word of con- 
solation. It is not difficult. What man who holds the bleeding 
heart of woman in his power, can but feel the healing words of 
consolation rising in his bosom ! The dumb man, lacking words, 
would find tears — which are better still. 

What shall we say to those who, before so many suffering, 
trusting invalids, offer to them as the whole remedy, the academi- 
cal spirit of brilliant common-places, old paradoxes, Bonapart- 
ism, socialism! What can we say ? 

There must be here, it is necessary to acknowledije, groai sterility 
and poverty of heart. Ah, you are hard and dry ! I f(>lt this the 
other day, when in passing, 1 read on the walls a mandate of the 
archbishop. It spoke of a suicide, of a miserable who had killed 
himself in the church of St. Gervas. What caused the deed? 



214 APPENDIX. 

Was it misery, passion, folly, melancholy, a moral sinking in the 
gloomy season of December? Nothing was said of the cause — 
the body was there, and the blood upon the stones — but no reason, 
and no clue to one. By what gradation of chagrin, disappoint- 
ment, grief, could he have arrived at an act thus contrary to na- 
ture? What circles of the moral hell had he descended, to reach 
the bottom of the abyss? Who could answer? No one. But 
every man, with a little imagination, could read in these mute 
and dark clouds of uncertainty, something which should prompt 
him to weep and to pray. 

But he who would weep and pray is not M. Affre. Read the 
mandate. He has compassion for the sullied church, and for the 
stained pavement, pity — but for the dead, malediction ! Mean- 
while, Christian or not, culpable or not, was he not still a man, 
Monseigneur? Could you not, in condemning the suicide, have 
let fall, in passing, one word of pity ? No ! not a human feeling 
— nothing for the poor soul which, besides its misfortunes here, 
(terrible, no doubt, since it could not support them,) has pushed 
itself, alone and accursed, upon that terrible adventure — the other 
life, and the judgment! May so much misery, and this very 
harshness,^ after death be counted lo him something ! 

Another circumstance very different, made some time since an 
analagous impression upon me. I had called to visit the venera- 
ble Sister * * ^ upon business. She was absent, and two persons, 
a lady and an aged priest, waited with me her return. The lady 
seemed to have been called there by some motive of benevolence. 
The priests, as priests are lords and masters in all houses of 
charity, made himself quite at home, and to while away the time, 
attended to his correspondence upon the desk of the sister. At the 
end of each note he listened a moment to the lady. Her sweet 
figure, upon which her years had a little weighed, possessed a 
peculiar character of benevolence. Perhaps she might not have 
attracted my attention, but there was an air about her which in- 
terested me. Was it the trace of disappointment and suffering? 
I heard without intentionally listening. She had lost her son. 

* This harshness has been conspicuous in the archbishop, in regard to 
the ecclesiastical library of Paris, which prints for all France. Tne pre- 
decessors of M. Afire never wished to put in force against these ancient 
and pious houses the slricfum jus — that monopoly wnich one law seems 
to secure to the bishops. These houses supposed that no one suspected 
them of deriving an enormous benefit. 



APPENDIX. 215 

It was her only son, full of life, vivacity and courage ; a heroic 
youth, who, coming from the Polytechnic School, had left all- 
riches, rank, and such a mother, and looking neither to the right 
nor left, had hurried to Marseilles, to Algiers, against the enemy 
— to death ! 

The poor woman possessed with her one idea seized from time 
to time an instant to put in a word. She had need of a listener — 
she thirsted for commiseration. The scene was extremely touch- 
ing and interesting — natural, and not melo-dramatic. Hers were 
sighs and complaints without tears — a grief that melted the spec- 
tator into sympathy hy its very moderation, 

She was evidently wasting her words. The mind of the priest 
was elsewhere. He could not do otherwise than listen, and make 
some kind of a reply — the lady was rich, and her carriage stood 
at the gate — but he gave such answers as cost him least to make. 
" Yes, madam. Providence tries us. We are stricken for our 
good. Such sorrows are indeed difficult to support,'' &c. These 
vague and cold words did not discourage the lady. She drew 
near his chair, as if she wished more distinctly to hear. "Ah, 
Monsieur, what say you? How could I have conceived of so 
great a misfortune!" It would have drawn tears from the dead. 

Have you ever seen the distressing spectacle of a poor hound, 
wounded in the chase, who draws himself near his master, and 
licks his hands, as if begging for succour? The comparison may 
seem strange to those who have never seen what I describe — but 
ac that moment it forcibly occurred to my mind. That woman, 
wounded to the death, and so gentle in her grief, seemed to draw 
herself to the feet of the priest and implore his compassion ! 

I observed that priest — vulgar, dry — like many men whom one 
meets neither good nor bad. Nothing about him indicated a heart 
of bronze certainly, bwt he was a man of wood. 1 could easily per- 
ceive that of all that had struck his ear, not a word had entered. 
He lacked a sense. Why torment a blind man with colors? He 
makes vague answers — perhaps sometimes they approach a mean- 
ing — but what can he do? He sees nothing. 

Think not that the priest can any better comprehend the heart 
than a blind man can understand colors. The man without wife 
or child might study in books and in the world ten thousand 
years, and still not know a word in relation to the mysteries of the 
family relations. Look at the priests j neither time, occasion, nor 



216 APPENDIX. 

facilities, fail them. They pass their lives with women, who 
make confessions to them which they do not to their husbands. 
And yet the priests know and know not — and in learning all the 
woman, they do not understand that better and deeper part which 
is, in her, the life of her life. They can with great difficulty un- 
derstand her as the lover, (of God or of man,) they understand 
her less as a wife, and as a mother, not at ail. Nothing is more 
painful than to see them near a woman, awkwardly attempting to 
caress a child. They have the pitiful gestures of the flatterer or 
the courtier — but of the father not a shadow. 

What I most lament in the condition of the man condemned to 
celibacy is, not merely that he is debarred from the gentle joys of 
the heart, but that there are and must be a thousand things in the 
natural and moral world, which are to him a sealed book. Many 
have thought, in thus isolating themselves, to give their lives to 
science; but that dry and mutilated Hfe is precisely that in which 
science has no profundity. It may be varied, and immense in 
range — but it runs over the surface, and penetrates nothing. Ce- 
libacy gives an uneasy activity in investigation — a sort of readi- 
ness in pursuit, a keen subtilty in scholastics and argument. 
That at least was its effect in the belter days of monasticism. But 
if it renders the senses acute and feeble against temptation, it does 
not soften the heart.^ Our terrorists and persecutors of the 
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were monks. f Monastic prisons 
were always the most crueJ.f A life systematically negative — a 
life of death developes in man the instincts hostile to life. He 
who suffers, willingly causes suffering. The harmonious and 
fruitful parts of our nature, which on the one part prompt benevo- 
lence, and on the other urge genius to high invention, cannot re- 
sist this partial suicide. 

Two descriptions of persons necessarily acquire much insensi- 
bility — surgeons and priests. The continual witnessing of suffer- 
ing and death gradually kills in a man his sympathetic faculties ; 
but we must remember always this distinction, that the insensi- 
bility of the surgeon is not without its utility. If he was moved 
by the suffering of the patient, it would destroy the steadiness of 

* The heart may be dry, and sense very eager. Let no one attempt to 
establish here a contradiction with the dangers which I have pointed out 
in my book. The contradiction is apparent only, not real. 

t For the 15th century especially, see my History of France, year 1413. 

X Mabillon, De V Bm'prisonnemeni Monastique, Posth. Works, II. 327. 



APPENDIX. 217 

his hand. The profession of the priest^ on the contrary, requires 
that he should be sensible to the sufierings of others, for sympathy 
is most usually the most efficacious remedy in healing a wounded 
spirit. Independently of what we say upon the necessary insen- 
sibility of that ungrateful life, it is necessary to observe that the 
priest, living, in our day, in contradiction with a society, all the 
progress of which he condemns, is less than ever tolerant and 
merciful toward its sinners and rebels. The physician who does 
not love his patient, is all the less likely to cure him. 

It is a melancholy reflection that these men, who are possess- 
ed of so little sympathy, and, what is worse, are soured by con- 
troversy, should have in their power that portion of the human 
race which is most gentle and tender: — those who most preserve 
the affections of the heart, and the better traits of human nature — 
who, amid the corruption of manners, remain least corrupted by 
selfishness and the baleful passions. In a word, those who love 
least, govern those who love most. 

To understand how they exercise this sovereignty, it will not 
do to stop at the insinuating and wheedling arts which they prac- 
tice towards women of the world. We must inform ourselves of 
the condition of those with whom no management and reserve is 
necessary; of those, above all, who, in convents are at the mercy 
of ecclesiastical superiors, who hold them under lock and key, 
and charge themselves with their sole protection. 

We are not very confident about this protection. For a long 
time we have believed — we have had the simplicity to say that 
there was no need of the oversight of the law in the kingdom of 
Grace. But hark! From these sweet asylums, from these Utile 
places of paradise the Avorld hears groans ! 

I would not speak here of the houses of constraint — of the af- 
fairs of Sens, Arragon, and Poilier — nor of the suicides which 
have taken place there. No, I would come much nearer home, 
and speak only of the most honourable and holy religious houses. 
How are they protected by the ecclesiastical authority ? 

And first as to the soul — the conscience, that chief possession, 
lo which we would sacrifice all others. Is it true that the sisters 
of the hospital, who are suspected to be Jansenists, have been 
latterly persecuted to compel them to give up the names of the 
private spiritual directors whom they were supposed to have ? 

19 



218 APPENDIX. 

Is it true that these persecuted sisters obtained a truce only 
through the menacing intervention of a magistrate, a celebrated 
orator, eminently Galilean ? 

And for the body — for that personal liberty which the slave 
gains from the moment that he touches the sacred soil of France — 
how has the ecclesiastical authority assured that to the nuns ? Is 
it true that a Carmelite, about sixteen leagues from Paris, was 
kept in chains several months in a convent, and afterwards shut 
vp for nine years among ike insane ? 

Is it true that a Benedictine has been placed in a sort of tomb, 
(in pace) and then in an insane apartment — shut up amid fright- 
ful cries and imprecations, and the impurities of lost women, 
who, from excess to excess, have become maniacs ?* 

This persecuted sister, whose crime it was to possess a mind — 
to loye to write and to draw flowers, had served the convent a 
long time as steward and preceptress. She had taught the greater 
part of the sisters to read. And what does she demand — the 
punishment of her enemies? No; simply the consolation of 
confessing herself, receiving the communion, and in a word, sup- 
port in her age, now far advanced. 

"But the bishop was ignorant of this, without doubt ?^' The 
bishop knew all. He "felt very much moved," and did nothing. 
The chaplain of the house knew that they w^ere about to put a 
nun in pace. " He sighed, '^ and he did nothing. The vicar- 
general did not sigh, but took part against the nun. His ultima- 
tum was, that she should starve, or return to her dungeon. 

Who showed himself truly the bishop in this business? The 
magistrate. And who proved himself a true priest ? The advo- 
cate — a studious young man, whom science had drawn away 
from his profession, but who, finding that unfortunate woman 
destitute of all succour, (for under the influence of a ridiculous 
terrorism, no person dared to plead or print a word for her,) took 
the matter in hand. He spoke, acted, wrote, walked, and made 
journeys in mid winter, at all sacrifices of time and money, de- 

* We might have hesitated to speak of these things if they had not al- 
teady been divulged by the public journals and reviews. Moreover many 
magistrates have already expressed their opinions upon analogous facts of 
the same locality. An advocate general writes to a sub-prefect : — " I had 

become convinced, like yourself, that the Lady y-os perfectly sane, 

A longer confinement might, perhaps, have made her really a maniac,'^ &c. 
Letter of M. the advocate general Sorbier, cited in the JSlemoir de 31. Til- 
lard, by Sister Maria Lemonnier. 



APPENDIX. 219 

voting to the work six months of his life. May God reward him ! 
Who showed himself here the good Samaritan? Who showed 
himself the neighbour of the afflicted, and raised the wounded vic- 
tim in the road, whom the Pharisees had passed by? Who was 
the true Priest — the Father? 

A witty writer of the day, calls the magistrates who interfere in 
the affairs of the church, "• My Fathers." He speaks in derision. 
'But they truly merit the name.* It has been given by the afflicted 
who are members of the Church of Christ, to magistrates whom 
I esteem no less members. They have called them Fathers for 
their paternal equity. 

Too long has their beneficial intervention been arrested at the 
threshold of the convent, by the crafty words, " What would you 
do here? Would you enter to disturb the peace of these pious 
asylums, and to terrify timid virgins?" But these timid souls 
are they who scream for help. We hear them in the street ! 



Laymen, whoever you are ; magistrates, writers, politicians, so- 
litary thinkers, it is your duty now to do what you have neglected 
— to take in hand the cause of woman ! 

We cannot leave these women in a power so insensible and 
harsh, while we have so little certainty that under any circum- 
stances, they can make themselves heard without, from the duress 
in which they are placed. 

* And they have for a long time merited it — the reasons for which would 
be a long history to write. It suffices to recall the year 1629, when an 
edict, originated by the Procurateur General, interdicted the monks from 
inflicting perpetual imprisonment, the In pace, &c. These cruelties how- 
ever, continued, and towards the end of the century the good Mabilloii 
wrote, (for himself it would seem, and the consolation of his own mind,) 
the little Treatise on Monastic Imprisonment, which was not published 
until after his death. I read in that treatise that, in 1350 the Parliament 
of Toulouse (celebrated too for its severity,) was obliged to repress the 
cruelties of the monks. " The king was horror-struck at their inhumanity, 
and he ordered that the superiors should visit these miserables (the per- 
petual prisoners) twice each month, and should give other monks permis- 
sion to visit them twice a month — that is to say, that the prisoners should 
be visited at least once a week. The king caused letters |)atent to be is- 
sued, and although the monks made some efforts to procure a revocation 
of the decre(\ they were com{)ellcd to observe it. His Majesty and coun- 
cil think that it is a barbarous thing to deprive of all consolations those 
miserables who are wfdghed down with melancholy and griel". Ixrulstcrx 
of Ow Parliamf'nf of Lfm.<rur(Ior, 13r)0. It is really very strange that eccle- 
siastics, who ought to be models ot" gentleness and compassion, should bo 
obliged to learn, of secular princes and magistrates, the first principles of 
that humanity which they sJiould practise towards their brethren." Ma- 
billon, Vc V inipr'isoiuicmciU Monastic, rosihumous Works, II. 323, 32G. 



220 APPENDIX. 

No greater interest, none which better deserves our thought and 
action could unite us. Listen, I enlreat you. That is a cause, 
wholly above all others, which has had the support of Heaven. 
We can afterwards, if we choose, resume our disputes, but let us 
unite to effect ihis ! 

And, first, let us frankly acknowledge the truth to ourselves. 
An evil avowed and known, is already half cured. Who are we 
to accuse of the actual condition of things? We do not accuse the • 
Jesuits, who but follow their trade. We do not accuse the priests, 
who are dangerous, unquiet, and violent, only because they are 
unfortunate. No, it is more ourselves than any other whom we 
should blame ! 

If the dead reappear in full day — if Gothic ghosts haunt our 
streets in the sun-light: ii is because the living have permitted the 
spirit of life to die out among themselves. Placed by history be- 
side the more ancient dead — duly iniiumed and consecrated accord- 
ing to the funeral rites, how have they re-appeared among us? 
Their appearance is a grave sign — a serious warning. 

It has been permitted, men of our day, to recall you to your- 
selves, to what you should be. If the light of the future manifests 
itself in its light among you, why should you turn your eyes to 
the shades and night of the past? 

It is your duty to look to the future and to act. You do not 
expect the day's work completed to be placed in your hands ia 
the morning. If the future is already among you as a germ, 
transmitted from the most distant past, let the future be with you 
also an incitement to progress — a will for improvement a paternal 
wish for the happiness of those who will succeed you. Love in 
advance the unknown son who is called The Future: labour for 
him — he is promised. 

Upon the day when your intimates perceive in you the man of 
the future, and of a magnanimous will, on that day the family 
will be rallied and strengthened. The wife, above all, will follow 
you, as if she said to herself, " I am the wife of a strong man." 

Modern strength is developed in the powerful freedom which 
disengages reality from cold forms, and liberates the spirit from 
the dead letter ; and this may be done in the smallest matters 
of business, as well as in the highest sciences. Why not reveal 
to the companion of your life this freedom, which is to you, life 
itself? She passes days and years at your side, without seeing or 



APPENDIX. 221 

knowing you in your best lights or appreciating what is great within 
you. If she could understand your progress, free, strong, and 
productive in action, and in science, she would not remain en- 
chained to idolatries and materialism. She would no longer sub- 
mit to the dead letter, but would rise to a faith more free and pure, 
and you would become one in faith with her. She would guard 
the treasure of religious life common to you both, and you might 
pursue your dry studies. When the variety of labours, studies, 
and business enfeebled in you the vital unity, she would bring you 
back, in thought and in life, to God, the true, the only unity. 

I will not attempt to put a great book* in a small preface. I 
will add only a word, which at once defines and completes my 
idea. Man should nourish the woman. He ought to feed her, 
spiritually and materially, if he can, who nourishes him with her 
love, her milk, her parentage. Our adversaries give woman a 
bad aliment — we give her none at all! 

To women of the easier classes, who seem beneficently decreed, 
through the family, to be brilliant and happy, we give no mental 
aliment. The poor, isolated, laborious, and unfortunate, who 
struggle to win their bread, we do not aid in their search for bodily 
aliment. The women — who are, or will be mothers — we leave to 
fast, in soul or body, and we are punished, above all, by the 
generation which is coming, for neglecting to supply them with 
the sustenance of life. 

The good will is not generally deficient, I am happy to believe. 
Time only is lacking, and attention. We live oppressed with care 
and with difficulty — we follow little objects with the eagerness of 
the hunter, and neglect the great. 

Man of study, or of business! You have no time, you say, to 
associate your wife with you in your daily progress. You leave 
her to her ennui, to empty sermons, to improper books, in such a 

* How many things besiege my mind, in writing this book, which T am 
compelled to neglect ! I would cite the intimate connection wliich unites 
the tiiree quesiiona oi education, direction, and penittmtinri/ reform — three 
branches ot the same science. All study oi direction throws light on ediL- 
cation. The experiments which are made in directio?i are more iiistnictive 
than those made upon an infant, being made on a person who is not in a 
state of slumber (like a child) but is all awake, in a lucid state, in the lull 
development of intelligence, and who, moreover, seriously deternnnes to 
obey. Nolwiibsliinding tlu; clouds of mystiscim which diminish that 
lifjht, the science ofeduc^alion mighi draw great prolit Ironi the experiences 
ot direction, described whh cure, by luminous spirits, who know how to 
observe and analyze, 

19* 



222 APPENDIX. 

way, that falling below herself, less than a woman, less even than 
a child, she exerts even over her own son, neither the influence 
nor the authority of a mother. But you will have time as his age 
increases, to labour in vain to repair an evil that cannot be re- 
paired , to run after a son, who, sent from college to the schools, 
and from the schools to the world, hardly knows his family — and 
who, if he travels a little, and you meet him on his return, will 
inquire of you your own name ! The mother alone could have 
made him your son, but it was first necessary that you should 
have treated her as a wife, and strengthened her with your 
sentiments and your opinions, and nourished her with your life. 

If I look beyond the family and the domestic affections, I find 
that our negligence with regard to women amounts to cruelty ; the 
melancholy effect of which falls back upon ourselves. 

You believe yourself kind, and a man of heart. You are not 
insensible to the fate of women. You call an old one your mother, a 
young one your daughter. But you have time neither to observe, 
nor know, that both old and young women literally die of hunger ! 

Two causes operate incessantly for their destruction ; that 
great workshop, the convent, which manufactures for nothing, 
not counting on its labour to live; and the great magazines of the 
stock companies, which buy from the convents, and gradually 
destroy the small shops which supported the female labourer.* 
To her remain but two chances — the waters of the Seine, or the 
streets at night, in which she may find wretches ready to take 
advantage of her hunger. 

Men receive nearly as much of the public charities as the 
women. This is unjust. They have infinitely more resources; 
they are stronger, have a greater variety of pursuits, and better 
capacity for entering new ones ; more energy, and better oppor- 
tunities to travel in search of employment. Without speaking 
of handicraft, which is very well recompensed in the country, I 
know provinces of France where day labourers and domestic 
servants can hardly be procured. 

Man can go and come. Woman must remain in one spot, 
and die. 

When that poor girl, who has been starved by the competition 

* This is the course of things. There is no person to blame. From 
the evil itself, we hope, will come the remedy. 



APPENDIX. 223 

of the convent, drags her wasted limbs to its gales — can she find 
an asylum there? For that, as she has no dowry to enrich the 
house, the active protection of an influential priest is necessary. 
But that protection is reserved for devout persons — those v/ho 
have had time to observe the Month of Mary, the Catechisms of 
Perseverance, &c. — to those who, for a long time, have been un- 
der the hand ecclesiastic. It is a protection often very dearly pur- 
chased — a high price paid for permission to pass a life between 
four walls, and counterfeit a devotion which you do not feel. It 
were better, much, to die ! 

They die without noise, decently, and in solitude. We never 
see them descend from their garrets to the street to move under 
the motto, "Let us live by our labour, or die in the combat!" 
They make no emeutes — there is nothing to fear from them. 
Shall we have no compassion except for those whom we fear? 

Men of money — to you I must talk in the language of money. 
I will tell you, then, that when there shall be an economical 
government, it will not fear to expend money to enable women to 
sustain themselves at their labour.* 

Not only do these unfortunate women crowd the hospitals, 
coming and going continually, but the children born of them, (un- 
less they die at the asylum^ for Enfans Trouves,) will be like their 
mothers, the habitual guests of the hospitals. One wretched wo- 
man is a whole family of invalids in perspective. 

Philosophers, physiologists, economists, statesmen ! You all 
know that the excellence of the race, and the force of the people 
depends, above all, upon the condition of the woman. She who 

* These who dislike poor taxes in general, and who are opposed to mak- 
ing a factor of the State, might nevertheless approve temporary work- 
shops open to poor women who would otherwise fall into prostitution. 
This very year, one of our hospitals has taken in two women halt dead 
with hunger, who had resisted to that point recourse to the fri^htlul alter- 
native. The asylums of which I speak have a model in the Bvsxuinairvs 
of Flanders, old institutions, too little known. I have spoken oi them in 
my History of France. The view of the charminij: Bvi^uinuirc of (.Jhent, 
that heauiiful village in the midst of the city, pretty colta;Lics'and «iardens 
intermingled, is among my pleasantest reminiscences of travel. The /><•- 
^uhies go once a week to carry home their work. They are often souiiht 
m marriiige, and in preference to others. Could we or not imitate iluso 
asylums, placing ours under the surveillance of mapistrates. free from 
ecclesiastical domimiiion ? I suhmit the question to tiiose practical men, 
who still remain men of heart — especially to that very zealous and enliiiht- 
ened Ixnly, the Municipal Council of Paris. 'JMie I^dnhs n///- /'.!// :,•/</ er/v, 
ot M. Faucher give curious iatulligencc of the now views, on various at 
tempts of this kind. 



224 APPENDIX. 

bears the child, understands it better than the father. Strong 
mothers give birth to strong children. 

We all are, and shall be eternal debtors to the women — that they 
are our mothers is sufficient to make us such. One must have 
been miserably born, and the heir of degradation, to make mer. 
chandize of the toil and suffering of those who are all the joy 
of the present, and the hope of the future. What they perform 
with their hands, is indeed secondary — labour like our own. But 
the sufferings, duties, toils truly maternal — these are her higher 
occupation. To give birth to the child — and then to give moral 
birth to the man — (such, little understood in these barbarous 
times,) is woman's destiny. '^ Fons omnium viventiumP^ What 
would you add to that great designation? 



I have written all this with the pure and serious spirit of her, 
who has never failed me — in all my struggles, present with me. 
I lost her thirty years ago, (I was young then,) nevertheless still 
living, she has followed me from age to age. 

She suffered with me in my evil days — she has not profited by 
my better fortunes. In youth I grieved her — the opportunity to 
console her I have never enjoyed. I know not even where her 
bones lie, for I was too poor then to purchase her a resting place ! 

How deeply am I indebted to her! I feel profoundly that I am 
the son of my mother. At each moment in my thoughts and 
words, (to say nothing of my gestures and my features,) I find 
my mother in myself. It is the blood of the woman in me, which 
creates the sympathy I feel for past ages, the tender remembrance 
of those who are no more. 

What can I render, myself advanced in life, for the many bene- 
fits I owe her? One duty only, in which were she here, I should 
have her sympathy ; this appeal in behalf of women and mothers. 

I have written this to accompany what is considered a book of 
argument. That designation is wrong. The farther this book 
goes down to the future, the more palpable will it appear, that, 
notwithstanding its polemical warmth, it is a book of history, of 
faith, true and sincere. £*0Owtaftt had I lawe fully set my heart! 

Easter, 1845. 






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